


Call of Honor

by queenrosemilktea (WASTEDink)



Series: Call of Honor [1]
Category: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Swearing, Tags May Change, screw you arkane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 108,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WASTEDink/pseuds/queenrosemilktea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John “Soap” MacTavish should be dead. Thrown from the top of a church tower after a failed attempt to assassinate Vladimir Makarov, his ribs shattered and organs bleeding out into his body, everything the battlefield taught him said that Soap should be dead in the ground. So when he wakes up in an unfamiliar place vastly diferent from the Czech city he can vaguely call to memory, Soap has but one question: where is he?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Between the nightmares of Coldridge and Empress Kaldwin’s final bloody moments that haunt him each night, Corvo Attano has been having strange dreams; two men appear before him, neither of them of his time. Since the day of his escape from prison and the evening of the Outsider’s first visit, the dreams occurred frequently. Corvo doesn’t know what to make of it—until one of the men appears on the doorstep of the Hound Pits.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p>Call of Duty: Modern Warfare/Dishonored Crossover. All characters and settings belong to their respective creators.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p>
  <a href="http://callofhonorblog.tumblr.com/">callofhonorblog.tumblr.com</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 06/25/15  
> Major Edit: 07/28/16  
> 

It was the Month of Darkness when Corvo Attano escaped from Coldridge Prison, six months after the death of the Empress and the kidnapping of her daughter. His route to freedom was a hole blown through the prison’s front entrance and like a phantom he disappeared in the sewers. Rumors that he had been aided by the Outsider in his escape followed, sweeping through Dunwall like the plague that burned through the city’s populace. In truth, Corvo had only been aided by the tools left behind by his allies along with his own will to live; his escape and survival was nothing short of a miracle. When he arrived at the Hound Pits Pub, the place where his rescuers resided, he was a thin, trembling, starving mess of a man, a ghost with gaunt cheeks and eyes that never focused on one thing for too long.

The recovery after escaping from Coldridge was a long one, but not long enough. Corvo needed to rest his exhausted, broken body, needed to regain his energy and the weight he’d lost during those six months spent in prison, but he and the rest of the conspiracy were on borrowed time. As soon as he had the strength, Admiral Havelock—the leader of the Loyalists, the ones who’d freed him—immediately put him to work in rebuilding his strength and endurance to at least a fraction of where they were before Corvo was imprisoned. The wounds he had sustained from months of torture slowly faded away into scars, and although he still suffered from aches that never went away, they no longer hindered him. He gained weight, pound by pound, and soon the only reminders that remained of the gaunt man who arrived during the Month of High Cold were the dark bags that never seemed to leave Corvo’s eyes.

Corvo’s body may have started to recover, but his mind had not. While his physical wounds faded, the memories of Coldridge and the day of his loss and downfall plagued him. His nights were restless, and each time he closed his eyes he was greeted with nightmares filled with blood and fire and seared, cut flesh and the horrors of prison, the sound of Jessamine and Emily screaming his name. Part of him expected the City Watch to kick down the door at any second, slaughtering his colleagues and dragging him back to Coldridge Prison where he’d finally be executed.

Corvo didn’t interact at length with anyone at the Hound Pits, only speaking when spoken to unless there was something he couldn’t go without. He kept conversations short, always looking for a subtle escape whenever he was approached. Overseer Martin and Lord Pendleton saw this as a problem; Admiral Havelock, on the other hand, didn’t care. As long as Corvo was doing well enough physically and mentally so as to not put himself or others in danger, and as long as he followed orders, it was enough for the Admiral. Once he had grown accustomed to the rush of working with someone so close to the late Empress and her missing daughter, Admiral Havelock was comfortable with the cold, professional distance Corvo put between himself and the residents of the Hound Pits Pub.

Without the support of his colleagues—the servants working at the Hound Pits didn’t know what to do to help him, and his superiors did little to begin with—Corvo took measures into his own hands when it came to his mental health. Keeping a journal gave him a place to vent, to pour out all his thoughts and feelings and observations when he feared no one would listen. when he couldn’t bear to approach anyone. His focus on physical recovery gave him a way to channel the violent energy that months of torture instilled in him; Corvo was never a particularly violent man, but imagining each bottle shattered by a bullet and each dummy slashed open with his sword to be the men who’d betrayed him and the Kaldwins gave him a sort of cold rush he couldn’t begin to describe. Piero, the engineer who designed Corvo’s weapons and most of his gear, sometimes allowed Corvo to sit quietly in his workshop and lose himself in watching him fuss over blueprints and schematics and fiddle with strange contraptions that Corvo couldn’t even begin to identify.

And then, there was the Mark.

Corvo remembered the night that he was pulled into the Void, a place with a periwinkle sky filled with the mournful calls of whales, where he was greeted by the Outsider, a black-eyed being with a smooth voice and pale skin carved from glacial ice. The Outsider gifted his Mark to Corvo, the image searing on the back of Corvo’s left hand from deep inside his flesh. At first, it wasn’t much to look at; Corvo’s new Mark was simply a pale outline, like a scar, barely visible on his dark skin.

When he wasn’t training, writing in his journal, or sitting with Piero, Corvo routinely vanished from the Hound Pits, leaving at any time during the day without a word and returning once night fell. No one knew where he went, and no one dared to ask; the Mark on his hand grew darker and darker every time he vanished and returned, and within a month of receiving it the Mark had become a solid black tattoo, always hot on his flesh, itching like an old burn that never went away. Corvo often asked the Outsider if it was supposed to burn; the Outsider always just smiled, giving a random, cryptic answer each time, or none at all.

Corvo was thankful for the Outsider entering his life, thankful for the Mark. The Mark helped him become stronger, helped him find the kind of power he needed to strike back at those who had taken everything from him, those who had killed the Empress and taken Emily away. If it weren’t for the Outsider’s gift, Corvo feared he wouldn’t have had the strength to fight and move the way he did a mere month after his escape from Coldridge. The Loyalists were surprised and somewhat suspicious. Corvo was just quietly grateful.

The Void also offered a place of refuge from the nightmares that Corvo faced almost every night. Every time he closed his eyes, it was a gamble; would he open his eyes to a periwinkle sky, or would he see the same blood and death over and over and over again, the images haunting him well into the next day? Being pulled into the Void did have its drawbacks; Corvo would always wake up tired and feeling a deep, burning ache in his hand unlike what he felt during the rest of the day. But, he reasoned, at least it wasn’t the nightmares.

Sometimes, when Corvo closed his eyes at night, he wasn’t greeted with nightmares or the Void. Sometimes, he dreamed of other things. Two other things, to be precise. Two  _people._

At first, they were distant, barely visible through a shroud of white mist. Corvo could barely make out what they were; people, perhaps, or maybe something else. The dreams became more frequent, and night after night, week after week, the forms would come closer. Corvo could start to make out some more details; they were both people, men, wildly different from one another and yet somehow similar. Nothing about them was familiar; not their faces, not what they wore.  Each time Corvo dreamed of them, they came closer, closer, closer, until, a month after his escape from Coldridge, they were each almost close enough to touch, more details becoming clearer to Corvo—who only became more curious.

The first of the two men was tall, around the Admiral’s height; he had warm brown skin and bright blue eyes and short hair that was shaved all around save a thick strip down the middle, which was longer than the rest. He held himself like a soldier, and was dressed in clothes that Corvo had never seen before made from materials he didn’t recognize. This man always looked at Corvo with a reserved sort of curiosity in his eyes, as if silently asking who he was.

The second man was shorter, with short, wild black hair and sharp odd-eyes that stared Corvo down with a piercing gaze, his lithe form completely clad in black clothing that, again, looked like nothing Corvo had seen before. This man, despite his own curiosity, was suspicious as well, always looking as if he were ready to leap into action should Corvo give the slightest hint of a threat.

Corvo and the two men never addressed each other verbally, nor did they ever get close enough to touch; the dreams always ended before that happened, and Corvo always woke with questions as to the identity of the men. When the dreams first started, Corvo would ask the Outsider about them. The black-eyed deity only ever smiled and shook his head, so in the end Corvo gave up, simply writing about the men in his journal and speculating to himself about who the men might be. They were important, that was for sure. Just what their significance was, Corvo couldn’t guess.

 

* * *

 

The time allowed for Corvo’s physical recovery was ending. It was time for Corvo to begin his service to the Loyalists as their blade, sent to dispatch targets who couldn’t be removed through underhanded political machinations alone. A few minor targets were taken care of first to get them out of the way and gauge Corvo’s ability; a pesky Lord here, an Overseer there. Soon, however, Admiral Havelock and Overseer Martin judged Corvo to be ready for his first high-profile target; the High Overseer himself, the head of the Abbey of the Everyman and one of the men in close allegiance with the Lord Regent Hiram Burrows, the man that the Loyalists were seeking to overthrow and replace with the young Empress-to-be Emily Kaldwin—if the child could be found, that was. The date of the mission was set to be the ninth day of the Month of Ice. Corvo counted down the days, waiting anxiously for a chance to strike back at one of the men who had taken everything from him.

In the nights leading up to the mission, the dreams of the two strangers had an air of urgency, the feeling growing with each night that passed. Corvo sensed that, soon, the significance of the strangers in his dreams would be made clear. Soon, he decided, he would finally have an answer.


	2. Prague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 06/25/15  
> Major Edit: 07/28/16  
> 

Prague was a blur of explosions and gunfire, the sounds of fighting and screaming coming from all sides as Soap felt himself being dragged along the narrow streets of the city, Yuri barely able to keep him upright as he struggled forward. Searing agony burned through Soap’s chest, his back raw and burning white-hot. Yuri was yelling encouragement into his ear, demanding that he keep his eyes open, that he run a little further, then he could rest. Soap barely registered any of it, too consumed by the pain that overwhelmed him. A spasm ripped through his body and he coughed violently, choking on blood and smoke. Distantly, he heard Price yelling.

The mission to assassinate Vladimir Makarov had failed. The remnants of Task Force 141, led by Captain Price and Captain John “Soap” MacTavish, thought they’d gotten the Ultranationalist leader cornered in the city of Prague, where he was to have a meeting in the middle of a warzone—a foolish, bold move on Makarov’s part, one that Soap and Price should’ve seen right through. Soap was meant to provide sniper support with Yuri, a newcomer to the 141, from a church just across the street from Makarov’s meeting place as Price infiltrated the building, hopefully putting Makarov down and ending the war that ravaged Europe and the United States.

Only Makarov had known they were coming, killing their informant and blowing his supposed meeting place—and the church tower where Soap and Yuri were hiding—sky high. How Soap and Yuri missed the bombs during their sweep, Soap would never know. How he and Price didn’t realize that this would be a trap, Soap would never know, either.

Soap and Yuri were lucky; they weren’t killed immediately upon landing on the cobblestone streets after they jumped from the church tower, seconds before the explosion. Yuri was luckier; he was limping and obviously injured, his exposed skin torn and bleeding, but was able to keep himself upright, able to hold a gun. Soap, on the other hand, was engulfed in a world of pain, and in the chaos that followed the explosion, his entire world was turned upside-down.

In the chaos, in the confusion, one sentence rang clear through Soap’s mind, one phrase that made Soap’s blood run cold when he first heard it. Before the explosion, before everything went to total shit, Makarov had come in over the radio, his snake-like voice still echoing in Soap’s ears, over and over again:

_“Yuri, my friend. You never should have come here.”_

Through the agony that ripped through Soap’s entire body, the white-hot pain of shattered ribs and ruptured organs and torn, burned, bleeding skin, Soap was able to register one emotion; anger. Pure anger that would’ve blinded him if the physical pain he felt wasn’t already making his vision swim. Makarov knew Yuri, knew the man that Soap and Price had been working with for weeks to track down that son of a bitch.  _He’d been a rat this whole time, hadn’t he? He was the one who set this all up, wasn’t he?_

It was becoming harder to move his feet. Soap stumbled more and more, tripping and falling on cobblestone, bringing Yuri down with him. Price was the one who hauled Soap upright again, the faint smell of cigars and the stronger stench of blood and gunpowder and sweat washing over Soap as Price held him upright, yelling at Soap to stay up, that he could keep going, that he  _had_ to keep going. There was desperation in Price’s voice. Fear. Something that Soap had been hearing far too often these days.

“ _Just leave me, Price,_ ” Soap heard a voice cry out, broken and hoarse and barely understandable. Soap could hardly register the words as his own. Through vision that swam in and out of focus, Soap saw Price’s face contort into an unrecognizable expression through the grime and soot that coated his features, his lips pulling back in a grimace.

“ _No!_ I’m getting you out of here!” Price snapped, and Soap felt the grip on his shoulders tighten, as if Price were afraid of what would happen if he were to let go.

Soap had broken something—his ribs were broken, the familiar deep ache that made it almost impossible to breathe welling in his chest. He could taste blood, his body wracked with violent coughing that only brought up more blood as more time passed. When he looked down, he could see his jacket had a dark stain that was spreading across his chest and stomach, blood seeping through the thick fabric. He could feel it trailing down his legs, into his boots, see it dripping on the ground with each step he took. The wound from his fight with Shepherd had reopened. He was losing a lot of blood. He didn’t have a lot of time.  _I don’t have time._ Through this realization and the agony that ripped through him, coupled by the gradual dulling of his senses, Soap found that he was unusually calm. Accepting. He knew what was coming.

Soon, Soap couldn’t even move his legs. He was set down behind a statue, a gun that he’d never even lift pressed into his hands. It wasn’t long before he was lifted once more by two men, carried into a safehouse with the sound of gunfire and screaming behind him. It was getting harder to see, getting harder to breathe, Soap's arms and legs growing colder with each passing moment. He was wracked with pain and horribly numb at the same time, barely able to register his own pained noises.

“Clear the table!” Price’s command was immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass and the fluttering of pushed and falling papers, and Soap felt himself laid down on a hard surface moments later. Each breath took every ounce of Soap’s strength, his vision swimming in and out of focus as people began to swarm around him, hands all over him, trying to find and stop the bleeding, trying to help, trying to postpone the inevitable—

_I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m going to die._

It was now that the panic grabbed hold of Soap, spasms tearing through his body as he drew rapid, shallow breaths, something white-hot burning in his eyes.  _No._ No, he couldn’t die. He and Price had to kill Makarov. Makarov was still out there, the war was still raging, Soap couldn’t die now, not before this was all over, not  _now._   _Please, God, I can’t die now—_

 _What the hell kind of a name is “Soap,” eh? How’d a muppet like you pass selection?_ Soap heard Price’s voice uttering those words as clearly as he did five years before, the memory of their first meeting the first thing becoming clear in Soap’s mind. He had to see Price’s face, he had to see him—

Soap’s gaze slowly traveled up, and through his unfocused vision he found Price directly above him, his face twisted in a rictus of terror. Price’s hands were pressed unbearably hard against the point of Soap’s bleeding, trying to stop it, the older man trying to do whatever he could to save his closest companion. Price locked eyes with Soap, his lips moving as he said something, something that sounded like—

“ _Stay with me._ ”

“Price,” Soap heard himself groan, another cough ripping itself from him. All he could taste was blood. Price frantically shook his head.

“Not now, Soap, stay with me, son!” Price twisted around, screaming over his shoulder, “ _GET A MEDIC!”_

Soap coughed again, groaning out Price’s name once more. Slowly, shakily, he lifted his hand, searching for the front of Price’s vest. Finding it, Soap gripped it as firmly as he could, Price turning and looking back down at him in response. A hand left Soap’s stomach and instead went to cover Soap’s hand. Price’s glove was soaked with blood, the exposed parts of his grime-covered fingers stained crimson. Soap could feel himself getting weaker, his senses fading, his body feeling colder and colder—

There was no time. No time to apologize, no time to say goodbye. No time to say anything. Except one thing. One last thing, one last way to uphold his duty to the world and to Price, one last way to help. One important thing.  _Makarov has to die. He knows Yuri. Yuri is a liar. Yuri is a traitor. Yuri—_

“Makarov…” Soap took a rasping breath, gathering the last of his strength to speak.  _“Makarov…knows…Yuri…”_

Soap had heard somewhere that when a person dies, the last sense they lose is the ability to hear. As Soap slumped back against the table, his vision plunging into darkness, he found that to be true as Price’s desperate screams rang in his ears, feeling someone shake him almost violently before he could feel nothing else. As Soap felt his consciousness slip away, the last thing he heard was Price’s whisper, low and shaking:

_“I’m sorry.”_


	3. Wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 06/25/15  
> Major Edit: 01/08/17, 06/02/17; 09/19/17  
> 

The first thing Soap saw when he opened his eyes was bright sunlight streaming down from an azure sky, momentarily blinding him as he came to.

Reflexively, Soap squeezed his eyes shut again, a groan passing through his lips as he slowly lifted his hands and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. His entire body hurt, from his head down to the tips of his toes, a steady, aching pulse passing through his body from his ribs. His skull pounded mercilessly as if someone had just taken a hammer to the back of his head, and he could feel every ache down to his bones. Slowly he rolled over onto his side, curling into a fetal position and staying that way for what felt like ages.

Soap’s mind was a haze of confusion and dull, pulsing pain, each thought struggling to make itself known. Yet they came, one by one, slipping into the front of his mind as he slowly came to full consciousness. Soap turned and pressed his head against the ground, feeling the rough, cold stone against his forehead. He coughed, wincing as a jolt of pain shot through his chest.

Everything was silent, save for the occasional cry of some creature Soap didn’t care to recognize. The sunlight beating down on him was bright but not warm, the air carrying the crispness of late autumn on the brink of winter. A breeze swept across Soap’s body, chilling him through his torn clothes and smelling of salt water—

_Salt water._

Slowly, Soap lifted his head, peeking one eye open and lifting a hand to shield himself from the sunlight. He wasn’t in the safehouse anymore. The first thing he saw when he looked up was a stone wall barely a meter away, moisture clinging to the stone and gathering in a puddle on the cobblestone below. A rat was sniffing the ground, searching for traces of something edible; it fled as soon as it saw Soap move, its oily hide and beady black eyes shining in the sunlight as it scurried off. The breeze was stronger, now, more like a wind, and carried in the smell of river brine. The animal cries Soap had heard before were now identifiable as gulls. Other than the gulls, everything was completely silent, without a single trace of life to be seen or heard.

_Where._

Soap coughed again, then spat a mixture of saliva and mucus and old blood onto the cobblestone. His throat felt like sandpaper. Soap rolled onto his back and slowly pulled himself upright, steadying himself with his hands on the ground and his legs stretched out in front of him. Rubbing his bleary eyes, Soap rotated his head back and forth, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

There was another wall on his other flank, this one also less than a meter away; he was in an alley, the stone walls of the buildings beside him and the cobblestone beneath him damp and starting to sport fungus. Soap was facing the opening of the alleyway, the street visible from where he was sitting; he could see some buildings from this point, and from what he could make out, most of them were abandoned, their windows and doors boarded up and marked with red paint. One visible building was locked down with metal paneling. There wasn’t a single living soul in sight, the street eerily quiet.

Soap coughed, then looked down at himself. His jacket was bloody and torn, the entire front of it stained deep red. It could keep him warm for now, but this jacket’s days were over. Beneath his jacket and his Kevlar, the rest of his clothes stuck to his torso, the blood dried to his skin and clinging to his body. His pants were torn, his boots ripped up, and when he looked at his hands, whatever his gloves didn’t cover were scabbed over and covered with dried blood. Soap assumed that his face looked the same way. Soap, trembling ever so slightly, reached up with one hand and touched his face, rubbing at it. It felt grimy, like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. His entire body cried out for rest, every part of him aching down to the bone.

In a vain attempt to feel clean, Soap wiped at his cheeks with the backs of his hands and grunted when the grimy, unwashed feeling only got worse. Instead of trying to clean himself, he decided to just check over his belongings, making sure that everything was in order.

His rifle was missing, lost immediately after his fall from the church tower. No one had bothered to retrieve it in the chaos—which, Soap decided, was a damn shame, because  _that shite was expensive._ His pistol was in his holster—no, not  _his_ pistol. Soap’s USP .45 was missing, instead replaced with an M1911—

Soap paused for a moment, pulling the pistol out of the holster and holding it up. It wasn’t just  _any_ M1911; it was  _the_ M1911. The gun that Price had given him five years ago. The gun that Price had trusted Soap to kill Zakhaev with, given to him in a moment of desperation. The gun that Soap had welcomed Price back to the 141 with after months of rotting in a gulag when Price had been presumed dead after a failed mission to kill or capture Makarov—

Soap scoffed.  _All these missions to snag that bastard seem to fail, don’t they?_

Soap ejected the pistol’s magazine and checked its ammo. Five bullets left. Normally, Price kept it fully loaded, never using it unless his other pistol had run out of ammo or failed. This had been used.

Soap reloaded the 1911 and placed it back in the holster, then checked the rest of his gear. His combat knife was still there, and in decent shape. He drew it and ran its blade lightly across his finger, feeling the cold metal bite into his skin. Satisfied, Soap replaced it in its sheath.

Surprisingly enough, his cigarettes were still in his pocket; the carton was a little crushed, but what was left of the cigarettes inside were still good. His lighter was okay, too. Soap didn’t have any grenades, and while he did have his radio, it didn’t pick up any channels. It didn’t pick up anything, actually; not even static. Soap assumed it was broken. He didn’t bother checking for his journal; he knew that it was safe in his coat pocket, and judging by the other things it had survived, it would’ve survived his fall and mad dash through Prague. He also knew that it would be bloodstained, and he didn’t exactly feel like checking which of his drawings were completely ruined this time.

With shaking fingers, Soap unzipped his jacket, checking his Kevlar. It was in relatively good shape; it probably wouldn’t do as good a job protecting him, but wearing it made Soap feel safer, more secure. And yet…

_Kevlar isn’t going to save you if someone rounds this corner and shoots you in the head._

Soap scowled, zipping his jacket back up and laying back down on the ground, his back flush against the cobblestone. He raised one hand to protect his eyes from the sunlight, his lips pulling back in a grimace as he thought, squinting at the sky through his fingers. This place was quiet. Too quiet. Had Russian forces swept through this area? If they had, there would still be patrols, still be people. Soap would hear  _something_ other than the eerie silence that permeated this place. And the smell of river brine…there was a river that ran through Prague, but it was freshwater, not salt.

This place was not Prague.

With a grunt, Soap hauled himself upright again, drawing as deep a breath as his aching ribs would allow before slowly tucking his legs beneath himself, kneeling on the cobblestone. From there, Soap rose to his feet, stumbling over to the nearest wall and pressing his hand against it for support. His legs felt weak, like they might give out on him at any moment—thankfully, they didn’t, and Soap was able to hold himself upright, albeit with some struggle. His chest heaved as his breathing became labored; the simple act of standing up drained him.

_I shouldn’t be standing here._

The thought echoed in Soap’s mind, his blood chilling at the realization. He leaned against the closest stone wall, struggling against the urge to slide back down to the ground and lie there for another hour. The fact that Soap was even breathing, that he was conscious, that he was  _alive,_ should’ve been impossible. He knew he’d been dying during that mad dash through Prague. He had to be dragged halfway across the city; he couldn’t even stand on his own. He lost a frightening amount of blood—the men at the safehouse, Price, Yuri…they couldn’t stop the bleeding.  _My ribs were broken. They had to have ruptured something, there was no medic, I couldn’t have survived, I should be dead—_

And yet, here he was, hurting and yet alive and breathing and able to stand—somewhat—on his own.

“This is fucked,” Soap mumbled to himself, the words coming out as a rasp. His throat was dry; he needed water.

He also needed to find some other form of life.

Soap took a few moments to gather his strength before he pushed himself off the wall, slowly staggering to the end of the alleyway and out into the street. Immediately he noticed that almost every building in sight, not just the ones visible from the alley, were closed, barricaded with wood and metal and all bearing similar red painted markings. The stone and brick buildings and the cobblestone underfoot were glistening with moisture, as if it had rained recently. When Soap looked up, he saw that the sun hung high in the sky; it was around noon, he decided. And yet, not a single trace of life was visible for as far as the eye could see.

How Soap could’ve even gotten here in the first place was lost on him, and he paused to take another good look around. The architecture of the buildings around him was vaguely European, maybe English, and yet…the buildings looked dated. Not like they were built anytime recently. Not in Soap’s lifetime. The buildings looked as if they had been abandoned rather recently—maybe months before Soap came here. This place couldn’t be Europe to begin with; almost the entire continent was a damn war zone, and if troops had passed through this place, Soap would’ve been hit in the face with telltale signs of battle. And yet, there were none, the abandoned buildings deathly quiet and free of signs of conflict.

The Russians couldn’t have come through here. This place has been abandoned since before the war started. If it had been abandoned afterwards, Soap would still see bodies, lost and useless weapons, bullet holes in wood, broken glass…this place would look like a war zone. But it didn’t. It looked more like…

_This place is under quarantine._

War didn’t sweep through here. War didn’t drive out whoever lived here. Something else did. Something which the thought of chilled Soap’s blood.

_How the hell did I get into a quarantine zone in the first place?_

Did the Russian loyalists abandon him? Did  _Price_ abandon him? Soap found himself staggering for the nearest building again, leaning against its wall and sliding down to sit on the ground. No, Price couldn’t have abandoned him—Soap was  _alive_ , alive and breathing, and Price would never abandon him if he were alive. They were too close. They needed each other. If Price knew that Soap was alive, he’d never just leave him to die.

Or maybe Price didn’t know that Soap was alive to begin with.

Maybe Soap slipped into a coma in that safehouse. Maybe Price decided it was useless, maybe Price abandoned him, left him for dead, because what else could he do? They had no emergency transport, no doctor better than a battlefield medic with minimal first aid. But then why did he wake up here and not in the safehouse? Did Price dump him here? Did the resistance dump him here? Soap didn’t want to think of what would’ve happened had the Russian army found his body—no, he wouldn’t even be in one piece. But if they dumped him instead of just abandoning him where he'd lost consciousness, why here? Why this unfamiliar place that was clearly not Prague? Why go through all the trouble of going to a completely different city just to dump his body? No, someone else must've brought him here.

_But who?_

Soap's memory was hazy, dominated by blood and pain and ending on that table in the safehouse in Prague. He didn't know who brought him to this place or why, but it wasn't the loyalists. It wasn't Price. That meant...

 _They left me for dead. They left me for dead._ Soap swallowed, trying to push down the bile that rose in his sore, scratchy throat. Nausea swept over him and he put his head in his hands, gritting his teeth and fighting back against the illness that suddenly sprang up from his stomach. The logical part of his mind didn’t blame the loyalists for leaving him, didn’t blame Price for leaving him; if Soap slipped into a coma, there would’ve been nothing that they could’ve done. Soap would’ve been as good as dead. And he did ask to be left, after all.

_But I thought I was dying then. I’m alive._

Soap lowered his shaking hands and stared down at them, trying his best to hold back vomit. This was  _the_ shittiest situation he had ever been in, and considering his military career, that was saying something. And that was including all the times Soap had been on the brink of death; at least there had always been someone there to help him. If something happened to Soap now, if he finally succumbed to his wounds here, nobody would be able to help him. Nobody even knew he was here except for whoever—or whatever—brought him here.

 _Pull yourself together._ Soap ground his teeth together, squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn’t sit here and let panic overtake him. He had to find someplace to hole up. Someplace where he could look after himself and figure out what to do. Preferably, some place with  _people_.

But where the hell was he supposed to find people in a quarantine zone?

_Worry about people later. Look after yourself first._

Waiting a few moments, Soap gathered his strength, then hauled himself upright, staggering to his feet. He wavered where he stood for a heartbeat, his knees threatening to give way, before his legs finally cooperated and he found the strength to move. Carefully, slowly, Soap began walking forward, looking for any place where he could retreat and rest and get a better look at himself. As he advanced, he took a mental note of what he needed.

He needed water. Soap was parched, his throat as dry as cotton, and he needed to wash off all this blood and dirt so that he could get a good look at his wounds. He needed basic first aid, at  _least._ Open wounds needed to be treated and bandaged. He needed food. If Soap really was stuck here, he wouldn’t survive long without some form of sustenance. He needed shelter. If he got rained on, in  _this_ late autumn chill, his weakened body wouldn’t survive the night. He needed rest. Every muscle cried out for rest, every bone ached, every joint felt stiff and sore. Soap couldn’t afford to push his body farther than it could go.

Soap hadn’t the slightest idea where he could find these things. Every building he passed was either boarded up or barricaded with metal paneling, and he didn’t have the tools or the strength to tear anything down right now. All he could do was wander and pray that, eventually, he’d stumble across something useful.

The streets were narrow, and every building seemed to repeat itself, the same structures of brick and stone and wood over and over and over again, with the same wooden boards or metal panels covering every possible opening. Occasionally, Soap would stop and find some alley to rest in, sinking to the ground so that he could catch his breath. Breaks were never long enough; every time he sat down, he just wanted to lie there until the pain went away. But that wouldn’t do any good. Sitting where he was, just waiting to get better, wouldn’t help him. Eventually, he would haul himself back up to his feet and continue his journey, staggering down the empty streets of this alien city.

 

* * *

 

Hours passed, the sun began to set, and Soap’s legs couldn’t carry him any further. He stumbled into an alley and collapsed to his knees with a grunt, wincing as a jab of pain shot up his legs and through his chest. He was in worse shape than before; no open buildings meant he couldn’t find food, or water, or shelter, or even a rag to wipe his face with. Soap scooted further into the alley, nestling himself in the shadows where he struggled to catch his breath. The suspicion that Soap was in a quarantine zone was confirmed; he’d been walking for hours down these abandoned streets lined with boarded up buildings, lacking any sign of life. Only the gulls, flying over some body of water Soap couldn’t see from this point, produced any noise in this desolate place.

A breeze swept through the alley and, shuddering, Soap wrapped his arms around himself, swearing under his breath. His bloodstained, torn clothes stuck to him uncomfortably, and while they did protect him from some of the cold, in this state it wasn’t enough. He needed shelter.

Unfortunately, this alley was the only shelter Soap had available.

Soap rubbed his arms for a few moments, and then reached into one of his jacket pockets, fishing around for his cigarettes. He found the slightly crushed pack of cigarettes and pulled one out, placing it between his lips with one hand while he searched for his lighter with the other. Finding it, he pulled out the lighter and shakily held it up to the end of his cigarette, fumbling a bit before finally lighting it. Sucking on it as if it were a pacifier, Soap inhaled the sour smoke, coughed, and then inhaled some more, intent on getting in a good dose of nicotine. Cigarettes were probably the last thing his body needed, but damn it, Soap wanted a smoke—no, _needed_ a smoke. Needed  _something_ to calm his frayed nerves, to relax his aching body and help him clear his head. While he smoked, Soap took the opportunity to look around some more. From where he sat in the alley, Soap eyed a few more buildings across the street, the structures standing starkly against the pink and orange sky, the sun setting behind them.

One building caught Soap's attention; he was surprised that he hadn't noticed it earlier. It was a pub, the windows on the ground floor stained in dull shades of brown and red and yellow. Save for the bricked-up windows on the second floor, most of this pub's windows weren't shuttered or boarded up; in fact, a few of them were open, although Soap couldn't see any light or movement. An old wooden table and a couple of chairs were sitting on the walkway that ran along the perimeter of the pub; Soap couldn't tell if they were simply discarded, or left out there for some other purpose. Either way, judging by the state of the pieces of furniture, they had been sitting there for some time. On the building itself, a brise-soleil wrapped around what was visible of the brick building between the first and second floors. There was a name stamped along the side of the brise-soleil in bold white lettering, worn from weather and time—

 _Hound Pits Pub?_  That was English—maybe Soap wound up somewhere in the British Isles? That would explain the vaguely familiar architecture. For there to be no sign of the war, he'd have to be very far north indeed.

Soap stared at the pub building, absently taking a drag from his cigarette. He could see two doors facing the street, and they weren't boarded up or otherwise sealed off. There was a possibility—or, at least, Soap  _hoped_ that there was a possibility—that the doors weren't locked, either.

The first thing that came to mind was  _shelter._ The second thing was  _people_. There wasn't any visible light, nor did Soap see any activity through the murky windows, but there was still a chance that people were holed up in there. They could feed him. They could shelter him, at least for the night. Maybe even tend to his wounds.

They could tell him what the hell was going on.

Soap took one last, deep drag from his cigarette before hauling himself to his feet. He dropped the cigarette and crushed the smoldering remains under his heel, then walked forward, taking his time to not strain his already exhausted body. The prospect of food and shelter and another human's presence gave him the bit of strength he needed to stagger across the street, praying that his legs wouldn't suddenly give out under him. Thankfully, they didn't, and he made it across the street and stumbled up to the nearest door, slamming the palms of his hands on the glass and leaning on the door to steady himself. Soap fumbled for the door handle, found it, and then turned it, pushing the door and relishing how it swung freely, the hinges creaking in protest.

The room Soap stumbled inside was dimly lit, the interior darker than the early evening outside. It took a few seconds for Soap's eyes to adjust to the low lighting before he registered that he had entered a taproom; it was largely empty, with chairs stacked on the booth tables that lined the outer walls and a few glasses scattered on the bar that wrapped around the inner wall. Large lighting fixtures were built into the ceiling above the bar, providing the dim yellow light that permeated the room.

Two men were standing at the bar, the both turning to face the door as soon as Soap entered the room. They were standing close together, as if they had been conversing, and when they saw Soap enter, their expressions went from drawn and tired, to surprised, to alarmed, all in a matter of moments.

The first man was tall, around Soap’s height, and looked to be around Price’s age if not older. He had craggy, scared features and short grey hair that was neatly combed, and he donned a uniform that looked vaguely like old Royal Navy blues. He had no name tags or badges visible, at least not that Soap could see from halfway across the room, but he did have a something strapped across his chest—a pistol. Soap fixated on him immediately, ignoring the other man that stood beside him; this person, the way he held himself and the way he was dressed, screamed  _military. Authority._

Soap felt relief wash over him, his eyes burning with the threat of tears.  _Christ Almighty. People._

Soap barely had time to open his mouth to utter a greeting before the pistol, once strapped across the man’s chest, was pointed directly at him.

The relief quickly gave way to terror and Soap’s hands flew up in a gesture of surrender as he stared at the gun and the man holding it. The gun, like the man in Navy blues, looked old; it resembled the flintlock pistols Soap’s uncle once collected, and yet it looked…different. Off. Something told Soap that, no matter how old this gun may look, even if his Kevlar could withstand a bullet—or a lead ball—his own body couldn’t.

“How did you find this place?” the man in Navy blues demanded, his voice rough and bellowing, a deep scowl settled in his aged face. He studied Soap with a hard, critical gaze, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger at any moment.  _Fuck. Fuck this is the wrong fucking place to be—_

“Oi,” Soap began, struggling to string a sentence together as he cautiously eyed the pistol pointed at his chest. “I-I don’t want any trouble, I just—”

“You’ve  _found_ ‘trouble’,” the man hissed. Soap’s heart jumped in his throat as he cocked the pistol, panic seeping into him as he desperately scrambled for ideas. Soap was wounded and weak, barely able to stay upright, with a pistol pointed directly at him. If he attempted to run, he would die. If he attempted to fight, he would die. If he said the wrong thing, he would die.

_You’ve fucked yourself over big time, haven’t you, MacTavish?_

“Admiral, wait,” a deep voice interjected, a hand shooting out and grasping the military man’s forearm. Both the apparent Admiral and Soap turned their attention to the one who spoke; another man, this one taller and younger, possibly around Soap’s age, with thick brown hair that hung just past his jaw in waves and deep reddish-brown skin. He was dressed like a shadow, wearing navy-blue vest, dark brown shirtsleeves, and black trousers tucked into tall brown boots, and for one so tall—he looked a good few centimeters taller than Soap—he was good at looking inconspicuous. A strange object hung from his belt; it looked almost like the hilt of a sword, the blade missing. His voice was accented, though Soap couldn’t really place the accent—maybe it was Spanish?

The Admiral looked up at the other individual, a confused and frustrated look crossing his features. “Wait?” he growled. He started to protest, but was quickly cut off.

“Look at him!” the taller man snapped. “He’s no danger to us!”

Soap grit his teeth as he stared at the two men standing at the bar, fighting the urge to turn and flee. His legs were starting to sway beneath him, however, and his arms threatened to fall to his side once more. He couldn’t stand in place like this much longer.

“No danger? He could run to the City Watch—”

“He won’t be running anywhere anytime soon, Admiral. Look at him, he’s injured—”

“And that’s our problem?”

The situation was clear.  _So, the first people I find are running some sort of illegal operation._ Soap swallowed thickly. Rather than kicking himself over his own naivete, Soap concentrated on thinking through his options. The taller man was in the process of saving his skin, but Soap wasn’t sure if he would wind up being successful or if the Admiral was just going to shoot him and be done with it. Soap needed to say something, anything—it was now or never.

Soap took a deep, shaky breath, gathering the courage to speak. “Listen,” he started, the two men turning to face him as the first syllable left his mouth. He swallowed, then continued, “I won’t tell anyone about what I found here. I just need shelter. I can find that somewhere else, if you could just let me go—”

“It’s rather late to let you just  _go_ ,” the taller man stated, his voice flat with a chilling matter-of-factness. He then turned to the Admiral once more, his grip around the older man's arm only tightening as he pressed, “Lower your weapon. He’s no threat to us.”

The Admiral glared at the taller man, his lips pressed into a thin line. After a few moments’ hesitation, he finally, reluctantly, holstered his pistol, Soap breathing a sigh of relief. Satisfied, the taller man released his hold on the Admiral’s arm and turned his gaze on Soap, striding up to him without wasting another moment.

It was then that Soap’s legs finally gave way, and he gave a low cry as his knees buckled beneath him. The taller man crossed the room quickly enough to stop Soap from hitting the ground, catching him under his arms and supporting him as he helped Soap stand upright again. With a jerk of his head, the man gestured towards one of the nearest booths and guided Soap there. Soap struggled to stay upright long enough to stumble forward; his body was wracked with pain, brought on by exhaustion and stress, and his legs simply couldn’t carry him more than a few steps further.

Soap collapsed in one of the booths with a sigh, relieved that he finally had a chance to rest. His body still ached down to his very bones, but it readily welcomed this opportunity, his body immediately slumping back against the booth. The man who had aided him turned over his shoulder, looking elsewhere in the room.

“Cecelia,” he spoke out—when Soap peered around the man, he noticed a young woman at the far end of the taproom, standing as rigidly as a statue with a broom gripped in her pale hands. She gaped at Soap, eyes stretched wide as saucers, even as she was addressed. “Cecelia, please fetch Piero. Tell him to bring medical supplies. And some water.”

The young woman hesitated, only springing into action when the Admiral gruffly repeated the taller man’s order. She dropped the broom, letting it clatter to the floor as she turned and fled, pulling open a door at the far end of the room and disappearing into the early evening outside. Soap turned his gaze on the table before him once she was gone, suddenly feeling two pairs of eyes boring into him.

“How did you find us?” the taller man asked, his voice firm, yet betraying no emotion. Soap closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to gather his thoughts. Distantly, he registered the sound of approaching footsteps.

“This was the first building for blocks that wasn’t completely shut down,” Soap answered after a moment, tilting his head to the side and peering up at the man who addressed him. Beside him loomed the Admiral, arms crossed as he glowered down at Soap. “I didn’t know who I’d find when I came in here, or if I’d find anybody at all.”

“How did you even get into this  _district?_ ” the Admiral demanded, the crease between his brows becoming more pronounced as his scowl deepened. “This district was evacuated and placed under quarantine months ago.”

“I don’t know,” Soap grumbled. There was a twitch of the Admiral’s brow at that response, the older man folding his arms tighter. “I just woke up in an alley and wandered around until I found you. I don’t remember how I even got into this city.”

“Where were you before?” the man beside the Admiral asked, resting one hand on the booth behind Soap’s head. When Soap looked up at him, he was surprised to see a faint look of recognition on the man’s face, his deep brown eyes betraying his otherwise stoic expression.

“Prague,” Soap answered simply, seeing no point in hiding the truth. These men, despite the faint recognition in the eyes of the man beside the Admiral, obviously had no idea who Soap was. They probably thought him a refugee or a deserter, and nothing more.

“Prague?” The Admiral pressed his lips together, averting his gaze as he thought to himself. Soap watched as he then turned to the man beside him, his stern expression giving way to one of confusion, brows knitted together. “Is that in Morley?”

“I haven’t heard of any ‘Prague,’” the taller man answered, much to Soap’s bafflement. “Perhaps it’s a smaller village? One that we haven’t heard of.”

“You’ve got to be taking the piss. You’ve never heard of Prague?” Soap cut in, his bafflement only increasing as the two men before him gave him blank looks. “The capital city of the Czech Republic? The city in the middle of a God damn warzone?”

The Admiral’s scowl returned. “No such ‘Republic’ exists anywhere in the Empire,” he stated. “Nor is there any overt  _war._ ”

Before Soap could formulate any sort of response beyond  _“what the fuck,”_ he heard a loud creak as a door swung open and the two men standing before him turned and faced the source of the sound. Soap peered through the space between them, his gaze falling upon a figure that entered the taproom—another man, dressed in loose, grimy clothing. He had a hunched over posture that made him seem smaller than he actually was, and perched on his nose was a pair of large round spectacles that reflected the dim light of the taproom. Behind him was Cecelia, the young woman peering from behind the man’s hunched shoulders. When she saw Soap, she quickly averted her gaze, gluing her eyes to the floor.

“My apologies for the wait,” the man in spectacles said, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He had a slow, stilted way of speaking, as if he carefully pondered each word that left his mouth. “I had trouble finding my supplies.” The man strode up to the booth where Soap sat, the Admiral stepping to the side to give him space. Cecelia followed closely behind the man in glasses, intent on staring at the floor and not at Soap. Soap wondered why she didn’t just leave, until he noticed the small box that she clutched in her trembling hands. Atop the box sat a little bowl—filled with water, Soap assumed. Cecelia’s knuckles were snow white as she gripped the box, her fingers pressed tightly against the wood.

“Took you long enough,” the Admiral muttered, clearly unimpressed, as the bespectacled man—the one called Piero, Soap assumed—turned and gently retrieved the box and the bowl from Cecelia’s hands. As soon as she was empty-handed, Cecelia turned and fled, running for some other room. She entered a separate room and disappeared, her departure immediately followed by the sound of running footsteps on stairs.

“Now, let’s see,” Piero mumbled, setting the box and the bowl down on the table. “Sir, can you please remove your jacket, and—,” he looked up, frowning at the vest that Soap wore over his jacket, “—and… _that._ ”

With a grunt and a low, “aye,” Soap went to work at undoing the buckles of his vest, sliding it off his shoulders and dropping it on the table when he was done, careful not to knock over Piero’s supplies. Immediately the Admiral reached for the vest, digging through its pockets and pouches, pulling out everything he found—which proved to be only one item, the radio that Soap assumed to be broken. The Admiral scowled at the radio, fiddling with the dials and turning it over in his large hands.

Next, Soap took off his jacket, unzipping it and placing it on the table next to his vest. With his jacket gone, Soap now sat in his sweater and scarf. He unwrapped the scarf from his neck and was relieved to see that save for a few flecks of blood and some dirt, it was largely intact; a good wash was all it really needed. The same, however, could not be said for his sweater; looking down, Soap saw that the entire front was stained with blood, the thick material sticking to the Kevlar underneath.

 _I shouldn’t have lived._ The thought crept in from the back of his mind once more. His memories of Prague were hazy and chaotic, but Soap could still remember the amount of blood that seeped through his clothes, leaving a trail wherever Price and Yuri dragged him. _I shouldn’t have lived._

Piero looked up from the box he was now digging through and grimaced at the sight of Soap’s sweater. “I…um...” He cleared his throat and fiddled with his glasses, his grimace turning into a frown. The Admiral looked up from the radio in his hands and his expression, too, contorted into one of shock.

“I’m assuming you’ll want this off, too,” Soap said, surprising himself with how matter-of-fact he sounded. Piero simply nodded, looking back down at his box.

“What happened to you?” the Admiral asked, watching as Soap carefully peeled the sweater off his Kevlar. Soap kept his eyes down as he pulled his sweater over his head, hissing through his teeth at a sudden jolt of pain that shot through his shoulder. Now only his Kevlar and his undershirt remained.

“It’s a long story,” Soap grumbled. He moved to drop his sweater somewhere—anywhere—but a hand shot out to take it from him instead; the taller man, who had remained silent for so long that Soap had almost forgotten him, pulled the ruined sweater from his hands. Unsure of what the man wanted with the sweater and of what to say, Soap simply grunted and went to work at removing his Kevlar, undoing the straps as quickly as his shaking fingers would allow.

“What is this vest you’re wearing?” the taller man asked, gesturing towards the Kevlar that Soap was now sliding off his body. Huffing, Soap held it out towards him, and the taller man immediately draped the sweater over the back of the booth and reached for the Kevlar instead.

“You’ve never seen Kevlar before?”

The taller man ran a hand over the surface of the Kevlar, frowning—whether he was frowning at the sensation or the dried blood caked on it was lost on Soap. “No, I have not,” he responded, not looking up from where his fingers toyed with the straps of the vest. “Nor,” he continued, “have I heard of such a thing. Kevlar…”

“You’ve never heard of—”

“Sir, I will have to remove that shirt,” Piero interjected, his slow voice catching Soap’s attention. He looked up and blinked at the pair of clothing shears that were now in the man’s hand, glinting in the low light of the pub. “I must—”

Soap shook his head, scooting forward in the seat with a low grunt so that Piero wouldn’t have to lean as far to cut his shirt. “I know, get on with it,” he responded gruffly, and without further ado, Piero went to work at cutting off Soap’s dark grey undershirt, the shears cold where they brushed against his skin. Soap kept his eyes averted, choosing to focus on how the taller man seemed to be baffled by the Kevlar in his hands.

“This is your blood?” The Admiral huffed when Soap nodded and shook his head. “I’ve never seen a man who has lost so much blood able to sit upright like you are.” The Admiral stepped around Piero and came to stand beside the taller man once more, crossing his arms; the radio he had taken from Soap’s vest was missing. “I have a feeling we haven’t seen the most of it.”

“You haven’t.”

“Then what happened?”

“I told you, it’s—”

“A long story, yes. Well, we have time.” The Admiral paused for a moment, and then asked, “Who even are you?”

Soap pursed his lips, not looking up from the Kevlar and the man holding it. “John MacTavish,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation, weighing the situation in his mind and ultimately deciding that telling them his name would cause no harm. He peered at the Admiral, who simply watched him back, his face betraying no emotion or reaction. “I am—I was a member of the SAS.” He paused, gauging the blank look on the Admiral’s face, and elaborated, “The Special Air Service. I am—I was the captain of a task force until—uh, recent events.”

“Special Air Service?” the Admiral echoed, his brows turning upward. Piero paused a moment to push up his glasses, then continued to cut away at Soap’s shirt until he was able to peel it completely off. He pulled off the remains of the garment and set them on the table, setting the shears aside and turning again to dig through his box.

“You don’t—” For a man in uniform, this “Admiral” seemed appallingly ignorant of the British military, although given his reactions to other tidbits of information, Soap felt that he shouldn’t really be surprised. “It’s…It’s a special forces unit in the British Army.”

The Admiral shot a glance in the direction of the taller man, his deep scowl returning, before looking back down at Soap. “The…British Army? Such a thing doesn’t exist.”

Soap gritted his teeth, turning his gaze on the floor.  _They haven’t heard of Prague. The Czech Republic. The British Army or the SAS. The war. Where the fuck did I wind up in?_

“Tell us the truth,” the Admiral said, regaining Soap’s attention, although he refused to look up from where he glared at the floorboards. “Who are you, and where did you come from.”

“I told you where I came from—”

“And nothing you’ve told me makes sense!” The Admiral snapped, Soap jumping but not looking up at his harsh tone. “Prague? The Czech Republic? The Army of— _none_ of these things exist.”

“Admiral…”

“You have one chance to tell us the truth,” the Admiral hissed, ignoring the taller man’s interruption. Soap dared a glance up, then shrunk back once he met the Admiral’s glare, his pale eyes as hard as ice. Piero stopped what he was doing, standing still as he watched the Admiral from the corner of his eye; however, the taller man on the Admiral’s other side kept his eyes on Soap, his cool gaze unwavering. “Who. Are. You. Who brought you here?”

“I told you who I am,” Soap muttered, “And I told you that I don’t remember how I got here—”

Piero drew in a sharp breath as the Admiral, stepping toward Soap, shoved him aside with one hand, his other hand reaching for Soap—to grab his shoulder, his neck, whatever, Soap couldn’t tell. There was a flash of movement, and the Admiral’s wrist was caught by the taller man’s hand once more, his hard gaze now turned on the Admiral, who in turn glared back at him.

“Stay your hand!” the taller man hissed, his grip on the Admiral’s wrist tightening when he tried to pull free. “He speaks the truth; no man would go through the trouble of dreaming up nonsense if he wanted to do us harm.”

“Do you hear him?!” the Admiral snapped back, yanking free from the taller man’s grasp. “He’s lost his mind!”

“And throttling him won’t bring it back!”

Soap cast a wary glance toward Piero, who was now staring at the Admiral’s back, his shoulders hunched tightly as he flinched at the Admiral’s raised voice. He took a moment to tear his eyes from the Admiral and look at Soap instead, peering at him through his round glasses as though he were trying to see into his skull. His lips moved as he mumbled something, too low for Soap to hear.

The Admiral whipped around, facing Piero with a hard stare. “What did you say?”

Piero sniffed, pushing up his glasses with an ever-so-slightly shaking finger. “I said,” he repeated, a bit louder this time, “That this man is wounded, not ill. And he is alert, and doesn’t seem to show any other signs of suffering from delusions.” He gave the Admiral a sideways glance. “Admiral, I believe that Corvo is right.”

The Admiral looked back at the taller man—Corvo—who in turn tilted his head with an expectant raise of his brow. The Admiral’s jaw tightened as he ground his teeth together. Then, he looked back at Soap, his glare still cold and hard.

“How is it possible that you speak the truth about places and things that don’t  _exist?_ ”

“What is the last thing that you remember, Mr. MacTavish?” Piero asked, returning to the box and bowl that sat on the table. He produced a cloth and started dipping it in the water in the bowl, looking away from Soap momentarily to concentrate on what he was doing.

“The last thing I remember was passing out on a table in Prague.”  _You know, the city that apparently doesn’t exist._

“What happened to you in Prague?” Piero pulled the cloth from the bowl and wrung out excess water, then turned to Soap again. He stepped past the Admiral, who stood as still as stone, and went to work at cleaning Soap’s chest of blood, trying to find its source. “I see some bruising…no cuts…”

“I…fell,” Soap answered. “From a tower. It was rigged with bombs and I had nowhere else to flee to. An old wound reopened and I’m pretty sure I broke my ribs—”

“That explains the blood,” Piero mumbled. “But…” He paused a moment to press his fingers along Soap’s ribs, earning a hiss as a jolt of pain shot through his chest. “It’s tender and bruised, but there’s nothing that suggests that there is a break. You said that there is a wound that reopened?”

“Yes, right there,” Soap said as Piero’s washcloth brushed over where his old stab wound was, some of the dried blood mixing with the water and smearing across his skin. “But I swear something was broken—I’ve had broken ribs before, I know what they feel like—”

“—And so do I, but I don’t see evidence of broken ribs. Now.” Piero turned and rinsed off the washcloth the best he could, and then went back to work at cleaning blood off Soap’s chest and abdomen, taking care around the spot where he said the wound was located.

“This is nonsense,” the Admiral muttered, crossing his arms once again and shooting a pointed look Corvo’s way. Corvo just shrugged, watching Piero as he worked without saying a word.

Piero paused after a minute, most of the blood around Soap’s wound cleared. “Huh.”

“What?”

“You said there is a wound here?”

“Yes…” Soap looked down, his brow furrowing. “Isn’t there—”

“You aren’t wounded elsewhere,” Piero mumbled, quickly wiping away some more dried blood with a frown. “But this blood is clearly yours. How is this possible?”

“My question exactly,” the Admiral spoke up.

“This can’t be right,” Soap said, half to himself, as he reached up to touch the wound on his stomach. His fingers felt cold and refused to steady themselves as he brushed them over the scar, a sudden wave of nausea washing over him. “No, no, no, this is impossible—I know what happened, I felt it tear open, I felt my ribs break, I was bleeding so much—”

“Calm yourself,” Piero interrupted, looking up at Soap. “You may not be as wounded as we thought you were, but you’re tired and the stress will do you no good. Now, do you remember what happened after?”

“No,” Soap replied, his voice wavering. He swallowed hard, then continued, “I…I just passed out. I thought I was dying, but I woke up in an alley and I—God in Heaven, I don’t remember how I got here—” Soap drew a deep breath, then looked up at the Admiral. “The date. What day is it?”

“The 4th Day of the Month of Ice,” the Admiral responded. When Soap stared blankly in response, the Admiral huffed, gesturing with one hand. “What’s so hard about that to understand?”

“That month doesn’t exist,” Soap said.

Piero, the Admiral, and Corvo were all silent at that statement, the three of them looking between each other with mirroring looks of concern and confusion. After a few moments of silence, Corvo looked down at Soap, his brow furrowed.

“What calendar do you use?”

“Gregorian.”

“That makes no sense,” the Admiral grumbled. “None of this makes any damn sense.”

“What was the date when you were in—in Prague?” Corvo pressed, his gaze unwavering.

“It was…” Soap took a moment to collect his thoughts. “It was October 11th, 2016.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as the date left Soap’s mouth, the expressions of the three other men in the room turning from concerned to completely baffled. Piero and the Admiral exchanged glances, and then Piero turned to face Soap as well, blinking owlishly at him.

“The year,” Piero said slowly, “Is 1837.”

_What. The. Fuck._

“…MacTavish, is it?” the Admiral began, rubbing at his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. “How on earth did you come to the conclusion that we’re two hundred years into the future?”

“What I want to know is why I’m two hundred years into the  _past!_ ” Soap spat out, the nausea that had settled in his gut only growing as the Admiral just shook his head and looked at Corvo, who simply shrugged in defeat. None of this made any sense; there was no place on Earth where anyone would believe they were in 1837. Soap balled his hands into fists and let them rest on his knees, staring at the floorboards once again and trying to quell the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.

_What the fuck happened to me?_

“I think I know what happened here,” Piero’s slow voice drawled, pulling Soap from his moment of turmoil. All eyes were on Piero now, and he sniffed at the sudden attention, pushing his glasses up his nose and smacking his lips. “It will seem outlandish, but there might be an explanation.”

“He’s a fucking lunatic,” the Admiral stated simply. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Listen to Piero, Admiral,” Corvo said. “I…feel that it’s not as simple as that.”

“Right,” Soap mumbled under his breath, half to himself.

Piero stood, fiddling with his glasses again and dropping the now-forgotten washcloth on the table. “This is a theory I’ve been toying with for a while, ever since I joined the Academy,” he began, folding his hands over each other as he turned to face the Admiral. “I’m sure you’re aware of the Void, the other realm that the Abbey insists is the world of—”

“The Outsider,” the Admiral put in. “Yes?”

“Yes, well, it is my belief that the Void is a world parallel to ours; another plane of existence separated by a veil between realities.”

“Aye, that’s nice and all, but what the hell has that got to do with me?” Soap demanded. Piero pursed his lips at the interruption but said nothing, wringing his hands together a bit tighter.

“My theory is that there are other worlds parallel to ours, similar to the way that the Void mirrors us,” Piero explained, “And that they, too, are separated from us by a thin veil of space and time. These veils can be easily ripped by some strong energy or celestial force, and are weaker in some parts than others—”

“Get on with it!” the Admiral urged, looking as though he was moments away from rolling his eyes. Corvo leaned against the back of the booth, casting a sideways glance towards Soap; Soap saw this and pointedly averted his gaze, instead choosing to focus on the way Piero tangled his fingers together.

“What I’m saying,” Piero finished, “Is that it is possible that our…guest here must have entered a space where the veil was particularly fragile. A traumatic event occurred, the veil ripped open, and he passed from his time into ours; a breach in the space-time continuum, if you will.”

“Are you sure you don’t spend too much time around that whale oil?” the Admiral grumbled. “The fumes must have gotten to your head.”

“I must inform you, Admiral, that this theory has been debated by many in the Academy,” Piero shot back, becoming visibly irritated. “Including Sokolov himself. I assure you, I wouldn’t be suggesting such a thing unless this was something that the Academy takes very, very seriously.”

“So…your reasoning is that I literally fell through a rift in the space-time continuum, right?” Soap shook his head. “Are you really trying to explain all of this with  _string theory?”_

Piero blinked, looking at Soap with wide eyes. “You know the name of the theory!”

“Of course I do, almost everybody knows about string theory.” Soap waved one hand around. “Parallel universes, alternate realities, all that shite. It’s just never been proven.” Soap thought about the times he’s debated string theory, remembering the heated arguments he had with Ghost and Price. Ghost was dead-set on the belief that it couldn’t possibly be true, that the universe was so mind-bogglingly fast that there was no way that there could be a separate plane of existence. Price didn’t know what to believe, and if he was honest with himself, neither did Soap. Maybe there were parallel realities, and maybe there weren’t; either way, Soap was a soldier, not a scientist, and he didn’t care to try to wrap his mind around things he barely understood.

The corners of Piero’s lips twitched upward in a grin. “Ah,” he responded, “But that’s precisely why it’s a theory.”

“Well, however the hell he got here, he certainly isn’t from the Empire,” the Admiral muttered. “Are you sure he isn’t from some continent that we haven’t explored? Our ships have only gone so far.”

Corvo sighed. “How would that explain how he wound up in the middle of Dunwall?”

The Admiral pursed his lips. “…You’re right. That was stupid.”

“I believe Piero may be right,” Corvo continued. “The Void itself most certainly exists, and we all know it. You have said yourself that you’ve seen supernatural things at sea, Admiral, where the veil is known to be weak.” The Admiral scowled and reluctantly nodded. “Perhaps MacTavish does come from a place beyond the veil, a place none of us are aware of.”

The Admiral rubbed at his temple, pressing his lips tightly together. “I suppose you could be right,” he grumbled. He then glanced at Soap. “But despite who he is or how he got here, we still have a trespasser on our hands; he’s stumbled right into our base of operations, and Corvo, he’s seen  _you._ ” When Corvo just sighed and averted his gaze, the Admiral continued, “You, MacTavish, aren’t going anywhere.”

“I figured,” Soap said bitterly. “You were ready to shoot me dead the moment I walked in. I’ve stumbled across something criminal.”

Piero sniffed. “Technically, yes.”

“Only  _technically?”_ Soap scoffed. “You lot are just criminals  _technically?_ ”

“Yes,  _technically,_ ” Corvo replied, his voice carefully even and low. “Our cause is noble. We aren’t…we aren’t bad people, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then what are you?”

Once again, Piero, the Admiral, and Corvo all exchanged a look, the three of them apparently deciding who would be the one to explain themselves. With a heavy sigh, the Admiral shook his head.

“...May as well,” he grumbled. “We are a coalition of loyalists to the late Empress, Jessamine Kaldwin,” he explained. “A usurper, whom we believe to be responsible for her assassination, is now in power, and we are dedicated to bringing him down and placing the rightful heiress, Emily Kaldwin, on the throne.”

“A conspiracy, then.”

“Precisely,” the Admiral stated, dropping his hands to his sides. “Now, you have two options. Stay with us and cooperate, or—”

“I die,” Soap finished for the Admiral, his voice a low murmur. Either way, the secret would be safe; the only difference between the options was whether Soap still breathed. Soap didn’t know if he could believe what was happening to him; it was more likely that this was all a coma dream and that he was holed up in a safehouse somewhere, but either way, it was better to be safe than sorry.

“I guess the choice is clear, then.”

The Admiral raised a brow. “Then?”

“I’ll stay.” Soap raised a finger. “Just…feed me, get me a bath, and explain to me what the fuck is happening here.”


	4. Settling In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 06/25/15  
> Major Edit: 06/02/17  
> 

The bathtub was frighteningly small.

It was more of a basin than anything else, in Soap’s opinion. He slid into the tub until his chin touched the water, his knees exposed to the cool air as they protruded from the water’s surface. Goosebumps rose along his skin and he shuddered, trying to pull his knees back into the tub as far as they could go. In the end, Soap gave up, leaning his legs against the side of the tub and staring at the wall.

Piero had finished cleaning the blood and grime off Soap’s chest and face, revealing only a few bruises and minor cuts that had long scabbed over. He had been given a shirt made of blue cotton that had a high collar and shoulders that were far too broad—it once belonged to Havelock, Soap assumed—and a bath had been drawn for him by one of the servants that minded the pub. Earlier Soap had put all of his effort into scrubbing himself clean with a washcloth and a bar of plain soap his hosts had provided; now he sat, concentrating less on cleaning himself and more on trying to ease the cold from his stiff limbs. He could feel his strength slowly returning; his body still ached and parts of him still protested if he twisted or bent too far, but most of the pain had finally dulled and continued to dull with each minute Soap rested.

The Admiral had introduced himself; “Admiral Havelock,” he’d said, his introduction punctuated with a curt nod. He explained his role as the head of the Loyalist Conspiracy, which was started not long after the assassination of Empress Kaldwin and his own expulsion from the Imperial Navy—an expulsion he gave no details of, beyond a vague referral to his refusal to serve under the Lord Regent’s banner. This pub, owned by Havelock himself, was the base of operations; there were contacts spread throughout the city, but the Hound Pits Pub, located within the quarantined Old Port District, housed the Conspiracy’s most important members.

According to Havelock, the turmoil that now gripped the city had been sparked by a plague that had hit two years prior. It had quickly spiraled out of control, burning through Dunwall’s lower class and claiming around a third of the city’s population by the time of the Empress’ assassination. The death of the Empress and the kidnapping of her daughter had pushed things even further and had the city teetering on the edge, and at this point the Lord Regent—who Havelock referred to as a “usurper”—was barely holding everything together.

Corvo had also introduced himself; Corvo Attano, former Lord Protector to the late Empress and her missing daughter. Corvo was there on the day that the Empress was assassinated; in fact, he was the one blamed for the crime. He insisted that he’d been framed, and that the Lord Regent—who had once served the Empress as her Royal Spymaster—was behind her death and the kidnapping of her daughter, and Corvo had taken the fall.

“I had guarded the Empress since she was but a young girl,” Corvo had murmured solemnly when he saw the faintest shadow of doubt cross Soap’s face, “And I guarded her daughter from birth. You tell me what kind of man would turn a blade on those who he loved and cared after for so long.”

Soap recalled how Corvo then went on to explain his purpose within the Conspiracy; he was to serve as their assassin, killing targets where political maneuvers alone would fail. He was freed from prison by the Loyalists in exchange for his sword arm, and in return, the Loyalists had promised to clear his name and restore his position as Lord Protector.

Corvo’s position wasn’t lost on Soap. Whereas hiring a blade would be costly in the long run and could put the Loyalists in danger of betrayal, having Corvo broken out of prison would provide the Conspiracy an assassin who was wholly dependent on them for food, shelter, and safety. If the Loyalists weren’t satisfied with his service, if he showed anything less than unwavering loyalty, it could put Corvo’s freedom—his very life—at risk. That wasn’t considering Corvo’s relationship to the royal family, and the advantages—and complications—that could bring.

Soap sank further into the lukewarm bath, propping his legs up on the end of the bathtub and crossing his ankles. He didn’t like this. He had just been thrown into a world completely unfamiliar to him, a world gripped by plague and political turmoil. He was essentially the prisoner of a conspiracy with no means to flee, no place to flee _to_ , and no way to survive on his own. Despite how hospitable these Loyalists were, despite how they fed him and clothed him, despite how they sheltered him and treated him like their guest, the fact of the matter was that for as long as Soap was here, he didn’t have any freedom, not truly.

He was nameless and penniless—he was _useless_ —and completely at the mercy of the Loyalist Conspiracy.

How Soap even got here in the first place was lost on him. There were two possibilities: either Piero was right and he’d fallen through some rift in space-time caused by God-knows-what and wound up in a completely different universe, or—and this was infinitely more likely—he’d simply slipped into a coma on that table in Prague, and this was all some wildly vivid coma dream. Soap hoped he would wake up soon and find himself in a safehouse somewhere so he could forget about Dunwall and the Loyalists and start worrying about his own problems again.

_But what if you don’t wake up?_

Soap gripped the side of the tub, his nails digging into the wood for a few moments before he forced himself to relax. If Piero was right, if Soap really did fall through some breach in the space-time continuum, then getting home wouldn’t be as simple as waking up. The mistake would have to correct itself somehow. Soap would have to pass through another rift, and he had no idea how he’d managed to pass through the first one. Soap didn’t even know how to  _find_ one, let alone cause one himself and just jump back into his own timeline. That was impossible. The odds of something like that happening were so infinitely small that, if Soap  _was_ brought here by a rift in space-time, he had next to no chance of ever returning home without one hell of a lucky streak.

 _No. Don’t think about that._ Soap closed his eyes, tapping his fingers against the side of the tub. No matter how he got here, it was out of Soap’s hands now. He couldn’t force himself to wake up from a coma, and he sure as hell couldn’t just rip open the fabric of space-time and jump right through into his own plane of reality. His responsibilities at home would have to wait.

A shudder ran up Soap’s spine as he was suddenly aware of how much cooler the water had become. He took this as his cue to get out, pulling his legs back in the tub and rising slowly to his feet. Goosebumps rose on his skin as he met the cooler air and with a shiver, Soap stepped out and grabbed a towel that had been left for him on the sink, wrapping it around his shoulders and standing there for a few moments before drying himself off, rushing to warm himself up.

Soap stepped in front of the mirror, rubbing the towel on his hair before wrapping it around his waist and taking a good look at himself. His face and chest were bruised, the already-yellowing bruises mottling his warm brown skin. Soap reached up and gingerly poked at his ribs, wincing at the tenderness; they still hurt, but Piero had been right in that there was no break.

_I know what I felt. I broke them on that fall._

Soap turned his attention to the scar on his stomach. It was an ugly thing, an angry knot of flesh just the width of the blade that had once been buried there. Shepherd’s doing. As ugly as the scar was now, the memory of the fresh wound left behind from a knife buried to the hilt in his stomach was even uglier. Soap’s survival was against all odds, and it took him more than a month of recovery before Price allowed him to take up a gun again. The time between mercenary jobs that paid for their weapons and supplies had been spent nursing Soap back to full health, and even then, he had to exercise extreme caution.

Soap gently brushed his fingers against the scar. It felt and looked the same as it did before what happened in Prague, and yet there was no doubt in his mind that it had reopened. The way he was bleeding, the blood pouring from him and soaking through his clothes, leaving a trail of red behind him…Soap shouldn’t have survived that. And yet, the angry knot of scarred flesh hadn’t changed, as if Prague had never happened.

Soap looked up in the mirror, drops of water trickling down his face from his still-wet mohawk.

_What the hell happened to me?_

 

* * *

 

 “You’re out. Good.”

The voice spoke as soon as Soap stepped through the doorway, his head as he searched for its source. Corvo was leaning against the wall directly beside the doorway, his arms folded loosely across his chest with a can of  _something_ in one hand. He tilted his head when Soap met his cool gaze.

“Enjoy your bath?” he asked, pushing away from the wall and standing straight.

Soap shrugged and folded back the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. “It was fine,” he responded, noticing the way Corvo’s lip twitched before his face slipped into a cool mask. He held the can in his hand out towards Soap, waving it at him expectantly when Soap didn’t immediately take it.

“I recall you saying that you wanted to be fed,” Corvo said, seeming pleased when Soap took the can from his hands and turned it over in his own. Now that Soap could look at it, it was more of a tin rather than a can, and it was unmarked. “This is all I can give you until dinner.”

“Thanks,” Soap mumbled as he fingered the tab on the tin, unsure of whether he should open it and eat now or later. “Shouldn’t we drain the bath or something—”

“I’ll get one of the servants to do that,” Corvo interrupted, stepping past Soap and clasping his hands behind his back. “Come,” he said, and without another word he strode for the door on the other end of the room.

Soap hesitated, staring after Corvo before taking a moment to look around the room he’d stepped in. Judging by the bunk beds, which were separated from the bathroom by some curtains supported by rods fixed to two pillars, Soap assumed that this was the servant’s quarters; there were a decent number of beds, even though the only servant Soap had seen was Cecelia. She was the one who had drawn Soap’s bath per the Admiral’s order; she’d completed her task and vanished before Soap had a chance to properly introduce himself.

“Are you coming?” Corvo’s voice rang out, interrupting Soap’s train of thought. Soap grunted and walked after Corvo, who stood waiting for him in the threshold.

“You gonna show me around or something?” Soap asked once he was closer, still turning the unmarked tin over in his hands, not really paying much attention to it. Corvo shook his head, gesturing towards the hall with one hand before stepping past the threshold into the hall.

“That will come later,” he replied. “For now, I’d like to talk. Somewhere more private.”

Soap hummed in acknowledgement, falling behind and letting Corvo lead him down the hall. They barely made it a few steps before a door further down the hall creaked open and someone Soap hadn’t met stepped through, spinning on his heel and closing the door softly behind him. He was an older gentleman, around Soap’s height and perhaps a little less broad in the shoulders, with greying brown hair and a drawn expression on his craggy features. The grey-brown jacket he wore was a bit long on him, but it was neat and clean, just like the rest of him. He started to turn when he heard footsteps, opening his mouth to speak.

“Master Corvo,” the man began, rubbing at his face. “If you’re looking for Lord Pendleton, I’m afraid he’s not to be disturbed. He has been complaining of a head—” The man dropped his hand and promptly fell silent when he saw Soap behind Corvo, the two men stopping just a meter or so away from where he stood. He blinked owlishly at Soap before muttering, “A headache…” under his breath, his voice laced with uncertainty.

“Wallace, this is John MacTavish,” Corvo stated without hesitation, waving his hand in Soap’s general direction. Soap folded his arms across his chest, tapping the tin of  _whatever_ against his upper arm as he nodded curtly at Wallace. Brows furrowed, he nodded back. “He will be staying with us from now on.”

“Who brought him here?” Wallace questioned. “The Admiral?”

“Dumb luck is more like it,” Soap grumbled. Corvo scoffed and turned his head to smirk at Corvo, one brow raised. “The Admiral just let me stay.” Like Corvo, Wallace raised a brow as well, although he looked significantly less impressed.

“Never mind that, then. I’m Wallace Higgins, manservant to Lord Pendleton,” Wallace stated, dipping his head shallowly at Soap. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must fetch some water for—”

“Could you drain the bath for me, please?” Corvo interrupted. “Once you’re done tending to Lord Pendleton, of course.”

Wallace sighed. “It will be done, Master Corvo,” he replied, bowing shallowly before turning and leaving, walking down the hall in the opposite direction of the servant’s quarters. Once he disappeared in the stairwell, Corvo turned to face Soap, tilting his head.

“Shall we go, then?” Corvo asked, nodding in the direction that Wallace had gone. Soap nodded and, satisfied, Corvo turned and led the way to the stairwell.

 

* * *

 

“You know, most people smoke  _after_ they eat.”

Soap huffed, a cigarette gripped between his lips as he dug through the pockets of his jacket, searching for his lighter. Finding it, Soap pulled the lighter from his pocket and held it up to the end of his cigarette, sparking a flame. He inhaled as much of the bitter smoke as he could as he stuffed the lighter back into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the tin that Corvo had given him earlier. Soap pulled the cigarette from his lips, turning and exhaling a cloud of grey smoke.

"And?"

Corvo had taken Soap to the roof of the Hound Pits Pub, leading him through the attic where Corvo quartered. Soap's belongings had been relocated there per Corvo's request, and now Soap's jacket was draped over his shoulders, shielding him from a cold breeze that bit at his exposed skin and chilled him through the thin cotton of his shirt, carrying in the stench of the river. Sunset had given way to twilight, and now the murky river, visible from the roof of the pub, reflected the last dying rays of sunlight.

Corvo stepped beside Soap, leaning against the railing that separated the two men from a three-story drop. He peered at Soap as he continued to take deep drags from the cigarette, sucking down smoke as though his life depended on it. "I figured you would've been hungry enough to eat what I'd given you first," Corvo said, nodding at the cigarette between Soap's fingers.

"Whatever, I needed a smoke," Soap muttered, taking a deep inhale of smoke and wincing as a brief flash of pain shot through his chest. "I'll eat it when I'm done. What did you even give me?"

"Fish. I thought it would hold you until dinner."

"Oh, good," Soap scoffed, tapping ashes from his cigarette as he let out another cloud of smoke.  Corvo raised a brow, cocking his head to one side.

"Do you not like fish, MacTavish?" he asked.

"Kind of. Not exactly partial to the canned variety."

Corvo huffed. "You'll have a hard time in Dunwall if that's the case."

Soap grunted in acknowledgement, raising the cigarette to his lips. Corvo fell silent, turning and looking out at the river, Soap doing the same. The river ran through the middle of the city, reflecting the scant light that started to glitter throughout the city's buildings. Dunwall wasn't as bright as modern cities, far from it; other than the lights that illuminated the windows of the visible buildings, the skyline was a shadow against the darkening sky. It would be a very long time before Dunwall was as brightly lit as any of the cities back home.

"Do you see that building?" Corvo asked, breaking the silence as he pointed at a massive structure on the other side of the river. "The tall one." Soap leaned forward, gripping the railing with one hand as he tried to get a better look. The building Corvo pointed out faced the river and was made of white stone, and in the darkness, it blended in with the rest of the skyline despite standing so close to the river; it wasn't as brightly lit as the other buildings. Beside it was another building, made of the same white stone and facing the first building. It was shorter than the first building, but still large in its own right; Soap figured that both structures would be a sight to see up close.

"Aye." Soap exhaled another cloud of smoke and tapped more ashes from his cigarette.

"That's Dunwall Tower," Corvo explained, standing a bit straighter with both hands on the railing. "The seat of the Empire. I lived there with the Kaldwins for over twenty years. It was there that I guarded Empress Jessamine and, later, her daughter, Emily."

"Yeah?" Soap murmured, twirling the cigarette in his fingers. It was burning dangerously low already; he was tempted to light another, but Soap wasn't sure when he'd get his hands on another pack of cigarettes again. He took a short drag from what he had left, studying the tower that stood across the river.

"The Lord Regent resides there now," Corvo continued bitterly, reaching up and tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “From what I’m told, he’s closed down the Tower to public traffic and rarely leaves outside of official business. He’s most likely in there right now.” With a huff and a lopsided smirk, Corvo added, “He could be looking at us through one of those windows right now.”

"You lot are conspiring against him right under his nose and he doesn't know a thing," Soap commented, glancing down at his cigarette again. He took one last drag from it before he dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.

"Precisely." Corvo turned around and leaned back against the railing, watching as Soap dug around in his pocket for the tin of fish he'd been given. “And if all goes according to plan, soon he’ll never set foot in that tower again.”

Soap pulled the tin of fish out of his pocket and fiddled with the tab a little bit more before finally pulling it back. He wrinkled his nose as a powerful smell hit him, the stench of the fish almost overwhelming.

"Uh...what kind of fish did you say this was?"

Corvo's lips twitched into what looked like a smirk. "Hagfish," he responded, Soap shooting him a bewildered look. "Common around these parts, very much so. You can't set foot into the river without your toes getting nibbled on by one of those creatures.” He sniffed “Or bitten off, depending on how big of a fish it is."

"I hate to tell you this, mate, but this isn't hagfish." Soap plucked a chunk of fish from the tin, making a disgusted noise at the slimy liquid it was marinating in. "Are you sure this is eel and not…slop?”

"What are you talking about? Hagfish aren’t eels at all."

"Well, what are they, then?"

Corvo furrowed his brow, thinking. "They’re just normal fish. With teeth. Are you trying to tell me that, where _you_ come from…?"

"They’re eels? Yes." Soap rubbed the chunk of fish between his fingers, apprehensive about putting it in his mouth. "At least, that’s what I _think_ they are. And they're not exactly a delicacy where I come from." Soap sniffed the chunk of fish held between his fingers and grimaced. "Not that this is any kind of delicacy, either."

"Trust me, it's much better fried," Corvo assured him, and his voice shook with a suppressed chuckle at Soap’s face. "If you're not going to eat it, though, just give it here."

"Let me try it first."

"Suit yourself."

Soap stared at the fish for a few moments longer, hesitating before giving in and putting it in his mouth. Because of the brine it had a slimy texture, and was a bit too salty, but other than that the fish itself wasn't too terrible. He chewed slowly, staring down at the contents of the tin in his hand, feeling Corvo's eyes on him as he tried to decide whether he liked it.

"How is it?" Corvo asked.

"...It's alright."

Corvo huffed in acknowledgement and Soap ate another piece of fish, the two men standing in silence for a while. A cold breeze swept across the roof and Soap shivered, frowning down at his food. Corvo looked over his shoulder, out at the river, reaching up and tucking his hair away from his face.

"So, MacTavish." Corvo cast a sideways glance in Soap's direction as Soap looked up at him, raising his brow as his name was called. "How are you liking here so far at the Hound Pits?"

"Other than almost getting shot? It's fine," Soap mumbled, earning another low scoff from the man beside him. "It's quiet."

"Yes, well, that's what quarantine zones tend to be. Quiet." Corvo stood up straight again, turning to face Soap fully. "Forgive us for...earlier," he said, crossing his arms. "You must understand—"

"Yeah, yeah, conspiracy and safety and all that, I know," Soap replied dismissively, shrugging his shoulders as he popped another chunk of fish in his mouth. He was slowly getting used to the saltiness and the texture, and now he was properly digging in, his hunger taking over. "I get it."

"Good."

Soap huffed. "You said this place was quarantined because of plague. Aren't you worried about disease?"

"Why would we be? So long as we take caution, limit interaction with outsiders, avoid the rats, and take elixir as often as we can, we should be fine," Corvo replied. "Not that we interact with outsiders to begin with. Anyone that the Admiral and the others have connections with communicate entirely through correspondence, and other than the servants who deliver said correspondence, there are no visitors, as you can imagine. A good portion of our funds go towards the elixir that Piero himself brews to fight off the plague, as well as purchased elixir from the black market, and, well...any rats that we see get exterminated." Corvo shrugged. "And besides, anybody with plague in this district is either dead or too far away to do any harm to us."

"And if they come closer? If someone here somehow gets infected?"

Corvo's cool expression didn't change. "We kill them."

 _Christ._ Soap simply nodded and looked back down at his fish. The tin was almost empty, and as Soap poked around for one of the bigger pieces that were left, Corvo continued.

"Hopefully it won't come to that. We take every precaution necessary. Which reminds me, we need to get you some elixir as well."

"Yeah." Soap paused for a moment, then looked back up. "What happens when you get sick? With the plague, I mean."

Corvo pursed his lips turning and leaning against the railing again. "I haven't seen the plague firsthand, but from what I hear, it's a slow process," he began. Soap nodded and looked back down at his fish, poking around for more pieces. "First the coughing sets in, then the fever. You get chills and heat flashes and cold sweats, and then the nausea comes and it gets hard to keep anything down. Then comes the sores. Victims are often bedridden. If it doesn’t kill you and if doesn't go away in its early stages—which it only does if you're lucky—it progressively gets worse and worse until you start bleeding from the eyes."

A shock passed through Soap and he almost dropped the tin of fish as he whirled around to face Corvo. "I'm sorry, I thought you just said people start _bleeding from the eyes._ "

"I did," Corvo continued, "And they keep bleeding from the eyes—and from other orifices, I hear—until death takes them, one way or another. Some people are lucky and die of fever before it ever comes to that, but many aren't. When they get to that point, I hear, people call them  _weepers,_ and they can linger for days or even weeks before they finally die."

"What kind of hemorrhaging lets someone stay alive for weeks before they finally die?"Corvo shrugged. "I'm no doctor, don't go asking me," he replied. "I'm just telling you what I've heard."

"And there's no cure?"

"None. The only defense we have are elixirs and quarantine."

"Christ." Soap looked back down at his fish, his appetite suddenly gone. Images of people vomiting up blood and bleeding from the eyes flickered through his mind, and as Soap remembered those hours of wandering through this quarantined district touched by plague with nothing but a bath in a wooden basin to clean him afterwards, his stomach lurched.

"I think," Soap muttered, slowly peeling down the cover of the tin of fish as much as he could, "I'd like to see Piero and get some of that elixir now."

"Of course." Corvo cast a glance out at the river, then at the sky. "It's getting dark, anyway. Come. Dinner should be ready soon."

 

* * *

 

The wait for dinner went on uneventfully, Soap staying close to Corvo as the two men were otherwise left to their own devices. Soap got the dose of elixir that he wanted, some blue liquid that was horribly sweet and hard to choke down, and after a brief tour of the building Soap decided to stick close to Corvo. The two men spent most of their time in the attic as they waited for dinner, conversing between each other when the awkward silence between them was unbearable. Once Havelock came upstairs on his way to the roof for a smoke, giving nothing but a short, gruff greeting as he passed; he seemed uninterested in stopping for a chat, which Soap was just fine with.

Corvo explained the new world Soap had found himself thrust into, telling him about the Empire and the four Isles—Gristol, Tyvia, Serkonos, and Morley—that it was made up of, along with a brief account of its history. He explained how Dunwall, the capital of Gristol, was the seat of the Empire, and summarized the forming of the Empire that had taken place over two hundred years prior; he told Soap about the War of Four Crowns, which led to a united Empire of the Isles. A constitution was written, a Parliament formed, and the throne was based in Gristol with a Gristian man crowned as the first Emperor.

Corvo also gave a brief description of the workings of the Empire’s government; each Isle governed themselves to an extent, but they all answered to the Emperor or Empress—or, as it was currently, the Lord Regent. Outside of rare cases where there was no Emperor or Empress or power changed hands between families, the role of Emperor or Empress was passed down through the ruling family’s bloodline; as it was, the Lord Regent was ruling in place of the next Kaldwin in line for the throne. The Kaldwin Dynasty had started with Emperor Euhorn Kaldwin, then passed along to Jessamine Kaldwin after his death; Emily Kaldwin was next in line for the throne—if she could be found.

The Kaldwin Dynasty began following the end of the Morley Insurrection, a two-year war that was the result of a violent Morlish uprising. While the uprising was crushed, resulting in Morley under tighter Gristian control, there was still a strong sentiment of independence among the Morlish; Corvo explained that, because the Insurrection was still in living memory, it was likely that anti-Imperial sentiments contributed to Morley’s refusal to offer Dunwall aid during the onset of the Plague.

Corvo then went on to explain Gristol’s Parliament; it was strikingly similar to the UK’s, Soap realized, with a system of checks and balances in place to ensure neither the Emperor or Empress nor the Prime Minister had too much power.

It wasn't too long until dinner was finally called and one of the servants—an older brown-haired woman—came up to the attic to fetch Soap and Corvo. She quietly led them down to the taproom where they were each given a modest portion of some sort of fried meat stew and, once again, were left to their own devices, allowed to sit wherever they pleased. Corvo waved Soap over to a booth on the far side of the taproom where they could eat largely undisturbed, watching the residents of the Hound Pits from where they sat.

The Admiral was there, eating his food at the bar and nursing a glass of something alcoholic, most likely beer, as he quietly minded his own business. Wallace was there as well; he was the one who'd served dinner, and, from what Soap gathered, cooked it as well. He wasn't a bad cook, given the rations; the meat, which Corvo kindly identified for him as whale meat, was good, and the carrots and potatoes and bits of onion that floated in the thin stew weren't that bad either. According to Corvo, this kind of dinner wasn't usual, as the conspiracy didn't have much money and usually had to rely on much more meager rations. Fruit and vegetables were hard to come by, and it was next to impossible to find meat like pork or beef readily available; fish or whale meat fried straight out of the can and served with bread and whiskey was much more commonplace here at the Hound Pits, as it was in the rest of the city among common folk.

Cecelia appeared briefly, as did Piero, the two of them coming in to take their dinner and scurrying off somewhere else to eat it. Wallace hadn't blinked at Piero's refusal to eat in the pub, but he'd given Cecelia a frustrated look and grumbled to himself as she took her ration and left.

"She's frightened of you," Corvo explained. "We aren't supposed to have any newcomers."

The servant that had fetched Soap and Corvo from the attic didn't take any food from the taproom; she'd already eaten, she explained, and as soon as Corvo and Soap arrived downstairs, she went off to her own business. Wallace left briefly to take a bowl of stew upstairs, probably up to whoever he'd been tending to earlier.

Corvo and Soap ate in silence for a good while, undisturbed by the others in the taproom, until the creak of an opening door caught Soap's attention. He looked up as someone he hadn't met strode in from the street-facing door, straightening his blue-grey jacket as he entered. He was probably around the Admiral's height, with dark brown hair and a blue-grey uniform that Soap couldn't identify. He walked in as though he was welcome, and judging by the way the Admiral looked up and greeted him, he was.

"Good evening, Admiral," the stranger greeted, waving with a hand gloved in black leather. "I see I came just in time for dinner."

"Come to mooch off us, hm?" the Admiral responded, straightening up over where he'd been hunched over his food. "I thought you were taking care of your own dinner for tonight."

"I changed my mind." The stranger strode up to the Admiral, heartily clapping him on the back and peering down at his food. "Stew for dinner, eh? I haven't had a good stew in months."

"Have Wallace get you some when he comes back downstairs, then," Havelock said, waving the stranger away. The stranger stepped back with a smirk, setting his hands on his hips as he watched Havelock go back to eating.

"Where's Corvo?" the stranger asked, and in response the Admiral just grunted and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the booth Soap and Corvo were sharing. He turned around, opening his mouth to greet Corvo and falling silent as his gaze fell on Soap, his brow furrowing in confusion. Soap glanced down and poked at a chunk of whale meat floating in the stew, trying not to look as though he’d been staring.

"Who's this?" the stranger questioned, looking back at the Admiral, one brow raised. "I thought no one else was joining us."

"Ask him yourself," Havelock grumbled, his voice muffled—his mouth was full, probably. "I'm eating."

Soap pursed his lips, trying not to frown too visibly down at his stew as he heard Corvo stifle a snicker. The stranger huffed, and then there was the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor as he crossed the room, approaching Corvo and Soap's shared booth. Reluctantly, Soap looked up, swallowing what was in his mouth before moving to stand up.

"Oh, stay down, there's no need for that," the stranger said dismissively, waving his hand as he urged Soap to remain seated. Soap had no objection to that, settling back into the booth and watching out of the corner of his eye as Corvo continued to eat as though nothing was happening. "I'm Overseer Martin," the stranger introduced himself, extending his right hand. Soap took it in his own; Martin's grip was firm, giving a few brief shakes before releasing him. "You are?"

"John MacTavish," Soap responded. Martin blinked at his response; exactly what about it was surprising, Soap wasn't sure of.

"You’re Morlish? What city are you from?" Martin asked, folding his arms across his chest.  "You sound like you're from the north."

_So that was what was so surprising to him._

"He's not from the Isles," Corvo interjected around a mouthful of food, not looking up from where he was shoveling stew into his mouth. Martin blinked, both brows raising as he gave Soap an expectant look.

"It's...a long story," Soap responded sheepishly. Martin's brow furrowed once more.

"I'll...have to hear it some other time, then," Martin said. "I'm only here to eat and get back to my apartment. I'm assuming it's that same long story that'll explain why you're here?"

"Yes," Soap and Corvo replied in unison, Soap shooting a curious look at Corvo, who still didn't look up from his food. Judging by his behavior it was safe to assume that Corvo just wanted this Martin figure out of his hair.

"I really don’t know how to explain in short terms," Soap explained, the frown on Martin's face making his dissatisfaction with that answer clear. “The quickest way to explain it, I guess, is that I was wounded and somehow…brought here while I was unconscious. The Admiral took me in after some…confusion.”

"You should've seen him, Martin," Havelock's voice called out from the bar, the Admiral looking over his shoulder with his glass in his hand. "Stumbled in here all covered in dirt and blood. If Corvo hadn't stopped me, I'd have just shot his ass dead. Looked like a damn weeper."

Martin sighed. "Have some respect, Havelock, the man's right here."

"He was right there when I was pointing a gun at him, what's your point?"

"Weren't you going to go eat, Martin?" Corvo grumbled, his lips almost touching the spoon dripping with broth. "Wallace should be downstairs in a moment."

Martin opened his mouth to respond when there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and shortly after Wallace entered the taproom once more, holding a now empty bowl as he walked back behind the bar. He nodded respectfully at Martin as he turned and looked, placing the bowl on the bar counter.

"Good evening, Martin," Wallace greeted gruffly. "Come for something to eat?"

"Yes, actually," Martin responded. "Get me a bowl of stew, would you? And some bread if you have any." He turned back to Soap and gave a short nod, muttering, "I'll talk to you later, yes?" before turning on his heel and walking up to the bar, settling down in a stool beside the Admiral as Wallace fetched him something to eat. Corvo let out a relieved sigh as Martin left, tension in his shoulders visibly lifting. Soap quietly went back to eating. He frowned to himself; the stew had gotten cold.

 

* * *

 

Soon dinner was over and Corvo and Soap lingered in the taproom for a short while, the two of them nursing glasses of whiskey and talking quietly as the night drew on. Martin ate and left, leaving the Admiral alone at the bar again with his whiskey and a cigarette, the grey smoke winding up to the ceiling. The older woman that Soap had seen earlier—Lydia, Soap had heard Wallace call her—was downstairs now, wiping down the counters as Wallace gathered up used bowls and glasses to wash. Soap looked up when the Admiral suddenly rose to his feet and wordlessly walked over to where he and Corvo sat, standing before them with his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

"If you're going to be staying with us, then sleeping arrangements will have to be made," the Admiral stated matter-of-factly. "All of the rooms in the pub are taken, except for a few beds in the servant's quarters."

Soap and Corvo exchanged a glance, and then Soap shrugged, looking back up at the Admiral. "That's fine, I guess," he responded. "I wouldn't mind sleeping in the servant's quar—"

"Absolutely not!" Wallace's voice rang out from the bar, much to the surprise of both Soap and the Admiral. He'd overheard them, apparently, and now he firmly placed the dishes he was holding back on the counter as he glared at the two men, his hands on his hips. "You are a guest, and will not be reduced to sleeping in the  _servant's quarters._ "

"It's fine, I swear," Soap tried to assure him, but when Wallace's expression didn't waver, he added, "But if you're really that uncomfortable with me staying with you, I could always sleep in the attic with Corvo—" Soap paused, then frowned, shaking his head as Corvo gave him a blank look. He'd seen Corvo's bed up in the attic; it was tiny, barely enough room for Corvo himself. He wasn't about to try and share it with him. "I could always just sleep on the floor?"

Wallace sputtered, baffled at the proposition, before he could manage to spit out his reply. "Absolutely not! We will not have a guest sleep on the attic  _floor!_ "

"This isn't a hotel, man," Havelock put in, becoming visibly irritated. "It doesn't matter where he sleeps."

"We have the two beds in the tower," Corvo suggested, working out the cricks in his neck as he spoke. "One is reserved for Emily, and the other for Miss Curnow, but neither of them are here tonight; MacTavish could take one of those beds until they arrive?" Soap didn't dislike that idea; it wouldn't be a permanent arrangement, but at least he'd be sleeping in a bed.

Wallace huffed. "Perhaps," he grumbled. "But when Her Highness arrives and Miss Curnow returns? What then?"

"Look, I can just sleep on the floor when that time comes," Soap insisted, earning another glare from Wallace. "Trust me, I've slept in worse places."

"If it's necessary, then I, Lydia, and Cecelia can vacate our quarters—"

"Over my dead body!" Lydia spat from where she'd been wiping down the bar, throwing her rag on the counter and placing her hands on her hips. She glared daggers at Wallace, who returned the look with a surprised expression on his face. "Then where are  _we_ going to sleep? I don't work my ass off all day so that I can sleep on the damn  _floor!_ "

" _Enough!_ " the Admiral bellowed, startling Wallace into silence. Lydia simply pursed her lips and looked expectantly at the Admiral; she was used to the Admiral raising his voice, it seemed. "This isn't that big of a deal, but since it matters  _so_ much to you lot, MacTavish will be staying in the attic. He and Corvo can figure out their sleeping arrangements from there." Havelock turned his gaze on Soap and Corvo, who stared blankly back at him. "Understand?"

"Aye."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Havelock sighed and turned on his heel, marching back to the bar where his almost-empty glass of whiskey sat. "It's settled then. Lydia, come top this off for me, would you?

 

* * *

 

"You said you're fine with sleeping on the floor."

It was a statement, not a question. Soap shrugged as he and Corvo walked up the stairs side by side, heading up to the attic where they'd retire for the rest of the night. "It doesn't matter to me," he said, "just as long as I get some sleep."

"Good, because I'm not giving you my bed," Corvo stated. He walked in silence for a few moments, the footfalls of the two men causing the wooden staircase to creak terribly. "I have an extra pillow and blanket. You can use those, and if you want we can bring one of the unused mattresses upstairs from the servant's quarters."

Once in the attic, Soap and Corvo quietly went about getting ready for bed. Soap accepted the pillow and blanket given to him, and Corvo went back down to the servant's quarters to grab one of their unused mattresses. He brought it back up by himself—didn't want help, it seemed—and dropped it beside his own bed before disappearing again for a few minutes, giving Soap a chance to undress in privacy.

Soap kicked off his boots and dropped his jacket on the floor without ceremony, not bothering to take off his pants or the shirt given to him before lying down on the mattress on the floor. The mattress Corvo had brought him was lumpy and the blanket he'd been given was scratchy and did little to ward off the cold draft, but it was much better than nothing. Corvo reentered the room once Soap was settled and after shedding a few layers of clothes, leaving on only his pants and shirtsleeves, Corvo climbed into bed and huddled under his own blanket.

Sleep was a long time coming; every few minutes was marked by the sound of Corvo tossing and turning in his bed, his mattress creaking and groaning as if it were in pain. In a vain attempt to block out the noise and the moonlight coming in through the dirty windows, Soap pulled the blanket over his head and turned his face into his pillow. It smelled of dust, and Soap found himself unable to hold back a sneeze.

Shouting what sounded like a swear, Corvo shot upright, his mattress letting out a particularly loud creak as if protesting the sudden movement. Soap rolled onto his back and lowered the covers just enough to peer up at the bed where Corvo sat with his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes. In the moonlight, Soap could see Corvo's lips move as he muttered something to himself; from what he could hear, it sounded like Spanish, or something similar; he assumed that, whatever it was, it was Corvo's first language.

"Same here, mate," Soap mumbled. All he wanted to do right now was sleep, but it just wouldn't come. He heard Corvo heave a heavy, frustrated sigh.

"It's the same every damn night," Corvo grumbled, "And it doesn't help that  _you're_ here. Outsider's eyes, I swear you  _exist_ too loudly!"

"At least I can sit still for more than five damn seconds!" Soap shot back, shooting upright so that he could glare at his roommate. Corvo returned the look, his nose wrinkled and lip curled in an irritated sneer. "If you'd just relax, we'd get to sleep faster."

"I don't know about you, but I haven't been able to  _relax_ in seven months," Corvo growled spitefully, turning his gaze away. He said nothing else, glaring at the wall in silence.

Soap let out a sigh as he laid back down, pulling the blanket over himself and making it a point to turn away from Corvo. Part of him didn’t blame Corvo for his frustration; trouble sleeping was something Soap himself was all to familiar with. The silence and the stillness of nighttime was when thoughts and memories repressed during the day tended to rear their ugly heads, and while the memories themselves were different, the symptoms were the same. Where Corvo no doubt thought of the Empress and her daughter, Soap thought of Gaz and Griggs, thought of Roach and Ghost’s last moments heard over the radio. Where Corvo thought of prison, a subject which he’d made a point of avoiding in conversation, Soap thought of all the times he’d been near death. He thought of the bridge in the Altay Mountains, thought of Afghanistan and the knife lodged in his stomach.

Prague came to mind, and suddenly Soap decided he didn’t want to do much more thinking.

"If we can't sleep," Soap found himself mumbling, rolling onto his back once more, "then we may as well talk. You know, until we bore each other into passing out."

Corvo grunted in response, shifting in his bed. Soap looked up and saw Corvo staring right back down at him, propped up on one elbow and blinking slowly. "What subject do you wish to bore me with, then?" he grumbled.

Soap paused. He still had some questions about this place and his hosts that had gone unanswered, and he wasn't about to talk about himself unprompted. "Where are you from?" he finally decided on asking, deciding that question was as good as any.

Corvo raised a brow. "Serkonos," he replied. "The southernmost Isle. I was born in the capital, Karnaca, and was raised there by my mother. I lived with her and my older sister until I won the Blade Verbena as a teenager and joined the Grand Serkonan Guard, and then came to Dunwall to serve the Emperor at Dunwall Tower. I was appointed Lord Protector two years later for Jessamine Kaldwin; she was just a child then.”

"The Blade Verbena?"

"A yearly sword fighting tournament," Corvo explained. "The best swordsmen from across the Isles come to compete, though anyone is allowed to participate, no matter their background. It's...an _occasion_. A victory almost always ensures earning a junior officer rank in the Grand Guard at least, no matter who the victor is."

Soap stared blankly at Corvo. "And you won. As a sixteen-year-old."

Corvo shrugged. "I grew up poor, on the streets. I had no father and my mother worked days and nights, so most of the time it was me or my sister. It was either learn to fight or get stepped on by people bigger and stronger than me, and I chose to fight." Corvo reached up and rubbed his neck, sighing. "I got good at it."

"Good enough that you were sent to the capital of the Empire to be the bodyguard to a future Empress."

A small smile tugged on Corvo's lips. "Impressive, isn't it?"

"More than I can describe."

Corvo let out a small hum, running his hands through his hair. "Sixteen years old. Outsider's eyes, that was more than twenty years ago."

Soap furrowed his brow. "You keep mentioning that name. ’Outsider's eyes' this, 'Outsider's eyes' that. Piero mentioned him earlier, when he was talking about my, er, _situation_. Is he some kind of God or something?"

Corvo hummed again, frowning. "Yes? Or no.  _Not quite_ is a better answer. I'm not sure what he is myself, to be honest."

"Care to explain?" Soap pressed. Corvo twirled a lock of hair with his finger, thinking.

"The Outsider is this… _being_ who appears as a young man and dwells within a realm called the Void," Corvo began, speaking slowly. "He's not quite a god, I think, but he's clearly not human. He's something...else. Some people worship him, but it's forbidden under the Abbey of the Everyman, and considered heresy."

"The Abbey of the Everyman?"

"The dominant religion of the Isles," Corvo continued. "I'm sure there are others, but not nearly as widespread. When the Empire was first formed, it gave the Abbey the chance to spread its influence far and wide; it crushed any and all outward opposition and continues to hunt down ‘heresy.’ Overseer Martin is a part of the Abbey—high-ranking, from what I hear—and his job and the job of the other Overseers is to preach the word of the Abbey and the Seven Strictures to the common people, and eradicate any heresy they can find."

Soap frowned. "So militant priests."

"I suppose. They teach that the Outsider is an evil being, some creature from beyond the veil who seeks to spread chaos in our realm."

"Is there a god of sorts that the Abbey preaches about?" Soap found himself asking.

Much to Soap's surprise, Corvo shook his head. "The only otherworldly being that exists is the Outsider," he replied. "The key to avoiding his influence, they say, is to resist his temptations, which are outlined in the Seven Strictures—which I am  _not_ going to recite now, so don't even think about asking. It's on each individual to resist the Outsider and save themselves, and if you don't...from what the Overseers say, you'll be lucky if they get to you first."

“Do you believe in any of that?” Soap questioned. He was brought up Roman Catholic by his mother and spent a good few years in Catholic school at her behest; while he had been insistent on shutting out whatever he could get away with as a child, Soap was all too familiar with the fear-mongering and control that his particular community had favored. Even then, he found it hard to imagine living under a religion that Corvo described; the idea of being raised to fear some kind of evil deity, with no other figure to pray to or look to for salvation, was considerably darker than any of the ideas that had surrounded Soap in his youth.

Corvo paused, considering his response carefully. "Only that the Outsider exists," he said slowly, "But I don't believe he's necessarily evil. More that he's..."

"Benevolent?"

"No. Simply...ambiguous. I believe he’s a quiet observer of sorts, a neutral spectator who may give us a little push every now and again, may slip his influence into our world, but not for any particular result."

Soap remained silent, frowning at the ceiling. His own religious beliefs were a mystery even to him; on most days he’d probably say something similar to Corvo in regards to the God he was raised to believe in, but considering the alternatives to someone raised under the Abbey, he couldn’t decide if such an outlook was comforting or just bleak.

"Of course, if I said that to anyone in the Abbey—or anyone else who cared enough—I'd be dragged away by the Overseers for being a heretic," Corvo added with a dry chuckle, distracting Soap from his train of thought. "The Abbey doesn't look too kindly on those whose opinions differ from the norm, as you can imagine. And I'm certain they all think me a heretic anyway. Apparently, there are rumors that I am in league with the Outsider himself."

"Why is that?”

Corvo fell silent for a few moments. "My escape from prison was against all odds," he murmured after a while. "I was weak with hunger and exhaustion, only a few hours out of the torture chamber, and yet I managed to slip out without getting spotted more than once—and that one time was because I blew the front door wide open, jumped into the moat and swam for the sewers where half the prison guard searched for me." Corvo laid down on his side, pulling his blanket over his shoulders and holding it there with one hand.

"No shit…" Breaking out of prison was one thing, but breaking out hours after experiencing torture that he'd no doubt gone through almost every day for six months...Soap didn't know anyone back home who could accomplish such a feat. Price himself only made it out of the gulag because the 141 was there to rescue him. Soap couldn’t help the wave of respect for Corvo that washed over him. “I’m amazed that you got out of there at all.”

"So am I," Corvo replied. "The Outsider must've walked with me that day; I don't know how else I would've survived."

There was a long stretch of silence as Soap searched for something to say, his mind continuously drawing up blanks. Sleep still beckoned, and his eyelids were only getting heavier and heavier with each passing moment, and Soap felt as though sleep was just within his reach. Maybe if he closed his eyes now—

"MacTavish?" Corvo called softly, rolling onto his back. "Is there something else you like to be called? Something your friends call you?"

Soap glanced up at the bed, only able to see Corvo's hand dangling over the edge. "…Soap," he answered after a moment’s hesitation. "Why?"

"You wouldn't mind if I called you that, right?"

Soap closed his eyes. "No, I guess not."

"Good," Corvo muttered, the word punctuated by a loud yawn. The bed creaked as Corvo shifted one final time and fell still.

Soap remained still for a few moments before rolling back onto his side, facing away from Corvo as he pulled his blanket up to his chin. His socked feet were cold, but at this point, he didn't care. He simply waited for sleep to take him, eventually slipping into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Whelp, this is all I've written for now! Please check in every now and again for more updates! (I will post links to my tumblr, mataalturtle.tumblr.com, whenever I publish a new chapter or two!)~~
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> EDIT 9/20/2017: Instead of my main blog now, I have a sideblog dedicated specifically to Call of Honor! [Check it out!](http://callofhonorblog.tumblr.com/)


	5. Change of Pace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 07/08/15  
> Major Edit: 06/02/17  
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The days following Soap's arrival at the Hound Pits blurred together as they slowly passed by. Soap woke up every morning expecting to be in a safehouse somewhere, perhaps with some medic checking his vitals, or perhaps with Price standing by his side, waiting for him just like he'd done one month ago after their fight against Shepherd.

Every morning the first thing Soap saw was the ceiling of the Hound Pits attic, sunlight streaming in through windows that desperately needed cleaning.

Martin didn't get to fulfill his wish to talk again with Soap, only popping in to discuss things with the Admiral and sometimes to eat before disappearing altogether one day. The Admiral had said he'd gone back to the Abbey—"Can't be away too long," he'd explained, "Or they'd suspect foul play.”

The "Miss Curnow" the others had spoken of arrived three days after Soap did, apparently wrapping up her own private affairs before moving permanently into the Hound Pits and taking residence in a tower accessible by a jerry-rigged bridge that stretched from an attic window across the rooftop of Piero's workshop. Miss Curnow's arrival was of little consequence to Soap, and he didn't see much of her to begin with; she minded her own business just like all the others, and watched Soap from afar whenever they happened to be in the same room.

Soap went to work settling into his new residence, getting to know his hosts and waiting for something to happen as the days dragged on. He regained his strength quickly as though the events at Prague never happened, and he threw all his energy into getting to know the Hound Pits and its residents the best he could. It only made sense; if he was to stay here, it was only right that he learn about his new—and hopefully temporary—residence. Once Soap had explored all that he possibly could, he impatiently waited for something,  _anything,_ to happen; life at the Hound Pits was slow and Soap found himself becoming more and more restless each day.

Corvo seemed just as bored and restless as Soap; he was almost always up in the attic, inspecting his weapons or writing in his journal or glancing out the windows or towards the doorway, waiting for action. Although technically Corvo wasn't allowed to tell Soap much about the conspiracy's plans—Havelock's orders, Soap assumed—he trickled down enough information that gave Soap a decent idea of what was going on.

The conspiracy had two goals: remove the current ruler, the Lord Regent, from power; and rescue Emily Kaldwin, the missing daughter of the late Empress, and place her on the throne, restoring the family line. The way to deposing the Lord Regent had been paved partially by a series of machinations and underhanded politicking, but the Loyalists had exhausted all indirect avenues of action; it was Corvo’s job to pave the rest of the way to carve the rest of the path to success with his sword. Eliminating key allies would turn the political tide against the Lord Regent and make it easier to clean up his mess and introduce the rightful Empress once it was his turn to fall. Restoring the Kaldwin line would also allow Corvo a chance at clearing his name and tracking down whoever had truly killed the Empress and kidnapped her daughter.

The Admiral was the leader of the conspiracy, of course, and his two closest allies were Overseer Martin, their strategist, and Lord Pendleton, their eyes, ears, and voice within the realm of nobility. They were secretive, even with Corvo, who before seven months ago would’ve outranked them all. They only allowed Corvo the identity of his first target, something he refused to share with Soap; whether he wasn’t allowed to or he simply didn’t want to was lost on him.

Occasionally, Soap and Corvo would have other discussions; Corvo would talk more about his life as the Lord Protector, and Soap would share little bits and pieces of his own life and the world he came from. One day he tried to sit Corvo down and explain the war that currently raged back home and the turmoil that preceded it, as well as his role within it, but it was so much to explain that Corvo became confused and Soap gave up when he started to confuse himself as well. Most of the time the two men were content to sit in silence, with Soap simply watching the new world around him.

Soap noticed little things about his hosts. He noticed how Corvo would quietly slink into each room, his eyes darting around and spying every crook and cranny before he even took his second step past the threshold. How Pendleton, who Soap was never personally introduced to, would constantly fidget and nurse a silver flask. How Wallace was always in Pendleton's shadow, at attention, ready to do whatever he was ordered. How Havelock would restlessly bounce his leg up and down whenever he was sitting, and how he never went out to the street to smoke; he always went up to the roof where he could see the river, staring out at the water until his cigarette was reduced to a burnt stub.

Sometimes Soap would find himself wandering into Piero's workshop, drawn to the man who would almost never leave his workshop as he worked tirelessly on... _something_ Soap couldn't understand. The first time Soap had gone in there Piero had all but begged to take a good look at his radio, and the second time he showed up the radio had been carefully taken apart and arranged in a way that made sense only to him. Piero had taken a special interest in Soap's Kevlar, studying it once he'd cleaned off the dried blood the best he could, and once Soap took apart his M1911 and let Piero take a good look at each of the parts, watching as the engineer studied the pieces and quickly grabbed paper to scrawl on, sketches and notes blossoming on the paper in bleeding black ink.

The more time Soap spent with Piero, the more he noticed little things about him as well. His stilted way of speaking was his most prominent feature, something that stood out when they first met, but it took Soap a little longer to notice how Piero had a way of repeating things he considered important. Sometimes he liked to mutter things over and over under his breath—Soap couldn't be sure of the reason. He rarely made eye contact, content to stare at whatever caught his gaze whenever he talked, and the way he peered at the world through his thick, round glasses never failed to remind Soap of an owl. Soap also noticed the way Piero fidgeted with his fingers when he was deep in thought, the way he muttered words or phrases that only made sense to him, the way he wrung his hands or rocked from foot to foot when something frustrated him.

 

* * *

 

The fourth day after Soap's arrival to the Hound Pits—the Eighth Day of the Month of Ice, according to Corvo—started like those that came before it. The morning passed by slowly and without consequence as Soap skimmed through books graciously provided to him by his hosts. By teatime, Soap was in the taproom nursing a glass of Hound Pits Draft and reading fifth chapter of a book titled  _Admiralty and the Fleet_ to a backdrop of gentle sweeping and Cecelia’s soft humming. The Admiral had loaned him the book; it was a bit dry, but an interesting enough account of Gristol’s naval history. The book was old and worn with dog-eared pages and a loose spine, and some passages were amended with sharp, impeccably neat handwriting in black ink, the notes drier than the original text.

“Good afternoon.”

A voice and heavy approaching footsteps distracted Soap from his reading and he glanced up in time to meet Havelock’s cool gaze, the Admiral striding up to Soap’s booth and taking a seat directly across from him, uninvited. Deciding not to take offense at his forwardness, Soap reached for his beer as he returned the Admiral’s greeting.

“Good afternoon.”

"You've started reading my book, I see," Havelock observed, nodding at the old book in Soap's hand. He rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands together. "How is it so far?"

"It's alright," Soap responded after a sip of beer, taking note of the page he was on as he closed the book with one hand and set it aside. “It has some interesting information, I guess," he continued, "And from the looks of it, it seems like your Imperial Navy isn't all that different from what the Royal Navy used to be like."

"Is that so?" Havelock asked, leaning forward with a slight quirk of his brow. A curious glint lit up in his pale eyes as he questioned, "You’re a soldier, correct? What is your Navy like, MacTavish? Or, what  _was_ it like, you said?"

Soap paused, considering his response. He should've expected a question like this. "Well, the Royal Navy used to be one of  _the_ finest naval forces in the known world," he stated, deciding to spare himself the effort of going into detail. "A necessary development considering the British Isles are completely surrounded by water—"

"The British Isles?"

"I guess it's kind of like the Empire of the Isles," Soap explained. "But smaller. It's made up of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. There are two nations there; the United Kingdom, made up of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland, and then there's the Republic of Ireland."

"I see," Havelock mumbled, considering this information. "This 'Ireland' is split into two?"

"Yes. It's a long history and it isn’t pretty, but to keep it short, the English are arseholes and everyone else hates them for good reason."

Havelock scoffed. "And where are you from?"

"Scotland."

"I wonder if it's anything like Morley."

"You know, Martin asked me if I was from there. Morley, I mean." Soap shrugged. "It's because of the accent, I think."

"It is," Havelock confirmed. "If I didn't know your... _situation_ , I could've sworn that you were from the north. Maybe as far north as Fraeport."

Soap gave a low hum of acknowledgement. "You know, you're accepting all of this fairly easily," he commented. Havelock raised a brow.

"I could say the same of you," the Admiral responded. "For all you know you could be in some place completely different than what we're describing. We could be lying to you."

Soap frowned. "I don't have much of a choice but to accept whatever it is you tell me, though," he pointed out. With a low huff and an upward twitch of his lips, the Admiral leaned back in the booth, crossing his arms over his chest.

"The same goes for us, MacTavish." Havelock paused for a moment, rubbing at the stubble on his face. "Tell me more about your Navy, then," he pressed. "You said that it  _used_ to be the greatest naval force in the world. What happened?"

"The United States happened," Soap said. "An old colony of England's, they gained their independence about three hundred years ago. They started out as thirteen colonies, and now they're a nation of fifty states and have the most powerful military force in the world, from the Navy to the Air Force—"

Both of Havelock's brows went up this time. "Air Force?"

"Aye. In my time, we've already developed flight both in the air and in space," Soap elaborated; at this, Havelock recoiled, as if such a feat were unimaginable to him. "The Air Force is our military in the sky—planes and such, you know."

"That's...incredible," Havelock responded, slowly drawing out the words. "The things we could do as an Empire with that kind of technology... We might even have a chance at Pandyssia..." The Admiral huffed and shook his head, frowning. "That is, if the Abbey would allow such a thing."

Soap scoffed. "Why wouldn't they?" he asked. "What, are they the sort that believe if humans were meant to fly we'd have been born with wings?"

"Corvo told you about them, eh? Either way, I'm sure if such technology was even feasible they'd argue such a thing, but that's not the whole picture," Havelock answered. "The Abbey teaches that the sky we see is where the veil is weakest, the crossing point between our world and the Void, and that every time we look up at the sky, we're actually staring down at the Outsider—and something tells me they wouldn't approve of anything that would bring us closer to him."

"That's ridiculous."

"But people believe it," the Admiral said with a shrug. "The Abbey has a death grip on this damn Empire; if the High Overseer says we're staring in the Outsider's face whenever we go cloud gazing, then you'd damn better believe it, and believe that we're not flying anywhere anytime soon." Leaning closer, Havelock added in a low voice, "Between you and me, it all sounds like bullshit."

Soap hummed, frowning. "Halting progress means nothing to them as long as they can maintain the status quo.”

"Precisely." Another glint entered Havelock's eye, this one unreadable. "That's something we're hoping to change."

Soap and Havelock sat in silence, the two men unsure of what to say next. The idea that perhaps this was a chance to ask some questions about the conspiracy was quickly shoved down; Soap didn't want to run the risk of irritating Havelock with too many questions, or asking something he wasn't allowed the answer to. Soap cast a brief glance at the book on the table, wondering if he shouldn’t just return to his reading.

“You know, MacTavish, I’ve been meaning to ask you—”

The courtyard-facing door suddenly swung open and Soap and Havelock both turned to face it as Wallace strode into the taproom. He scanned the room with critical eyes before spotting the Admiral and crossing the room in a few long strides to reach him. Havelock raised a brow and started to ask a question before Wallace inadvertently cut him off for a second time.

"A riverhand stopped by and delivered this to Samuel, saying that it's for you," Wallace explained, holding out a folded piece of paper hastily secured with some knotted twine. "He said that it's urgent—from the Office of the High Overseer."

"It must be from Martin, then," Havelock grumbled, taking the letter from Wallace's hands and fumbling with the twine. "I wonder what he's got for us."

Soap and Wallace watched in silence as Havelock read the letter, curiosity biting at Soap as he watched the Admiral's eyes scan the page. Havelock's expression shifted into a frown, then into a deep scowl as he continued to read. Havelock’s jaw clenched, and Wallace drew a deep breath and held his hands behind his back, where they fidgeted nervously.

"Damn it!" Havelock’s snarl was as sudden as the balling of his fists as crushed the letter in his hands, shaking the table as he abruptly stood. Soap winced and watched as Havelock whipped around to face a startled Wallace, who was just barely composed enough to face him.

"Where's Pendleton?" the Admiral demanded.

"I'm not sure," Wallace answered, earning a sharp glare from Havelock. "Sir, if I may ask, what—"

"Martin's been compromised," Havelock replied shortly. Wallace recoiled in shock, and Soap felt his own stomach drop.

"Find Lord Pendleton, and send him to my quarters," Havelock ordered, starting for the stairs. "Tell him that it's urgent." With that, the Admiral stormed off, leaving Wallace and Soap behind.

"Outsider's eyes," Wallace muttered under his breath, and Soap watched as he left in search of Pendleton.

Soap looked back down at the book the Admiral had loaned him. He wondered just how long ago Martin had been discovered. Was the letter written and sent as soon as he was arrested, arriving at the Hound Pits the same day? No, it was more likely that there had been a delay and Martin had been in custody for a few days now. Perhaps it was too late to do anything about Martin's capture. It was possible he was already dead, or maybe he'd given so much information that launching a recovery mission would be pointless anyway. Would he be the type to crack if pressured enough? Especially this quickly? Or would it be pointless either way?

 _God in Heaven._ If Martin was captured, that meant his captors knew about the conspiracy, and if they found out about the other major players and their location—worse, if they found out about  _Corvo_ and his location—

 _Run away_ was the first thing that came to mind. Martin’s capture meant that the security of the conspiracy was compromised, and Soap didn’t want to be there when city officials kicked down the door. Quickly, however, Soap pushed the thought down; he had no means to run, no place to run to, no way to survive on his own in an unfamiliar city in an unfamiliar country in an unfamiliar  _world._ This city was plague-ridden, food shortages were likely as were increased crime rates, and if Havelock decided that Soap's disappearance was a danger to the conspiracy—which he most likely would—then he would be liable to send Corvo after him, and Soap didn't exactly want to find himself on the other end of Corvo's sword. If anything, it would be safer to stay at the Hound Pits.

For now.

 

* * *

 

The next few hours were tense and worry-filled. Soap was unsuccessful in trying to forget his worries by returning to reading, and in the end, he gave up on reading altogether and instead retreated to Piero's workshop. Piero had been informed about Martin's capture—word travelled fast around the pub—but he seemed blissfully unaffected by the news; too dug into his work, Soap assumed, or else too confident that things would turn out alright in the end. He was too busy to make any sort of conversation with Soap, which was fine by him; watching Piero do his work was oddly soothing, and helped to take his mind of things for the time being.

Soap had begun to light a cigarette, sitting on a stool a good distance away from Piero and his workbench, when he heard a light rapping on the metal frame of the entryway. Piero ignored this; however, Soap glanced up, spotting Corvo just beyond the threshold.

"I knew I'd find you here," Corvo stated with a small grin, crossing his arms over his chest. "You spend a lot of time with Piero, I've noticed."

"It's interesting, watching him work," Soap admitted, earning a slightly wider smile from Corvo. "Is there something you need me for?"

"Apparently, the Admiral wants to talk to the two of us." Corvo beckoned at Soap, who slid off the barstool, stuffing his cigarette—which thankfully hadn't been lit yet—back into the pack, the pack and lighter both going into his pocket. The two of them headed for the pub, Soap tossing an ignored "see you later, Piero," over his shoulder. He and Corvo entered the building and headed for the stairs together, walking up them shoulder to shoulder.

"I'd imagine this has to do with Martin's capture," Soap mumbled on their way up. He didn't see why not—it was only logical that this was the reason why Havelock would call a meeting. Why he wanted Soap, however, was beyond him. "What do you think he wants with me?"

"Who knows?" Corvo replied with a shrug. "I'm assuming he'd want me to leave tonight to recover Martin, but you...I haven't the slightest idea of what he could possibly want with you."

Soap scoffed. "Who knows, he could be sending me with you."

Corvo gave Soap a sideways glance, raising one brow, unimpressed. "Hm."

Soap and Corvo fell silent as they approached the door at the far end of the hall on the second floor—Havelock's quarters. Corvo knocked on the door, and Havelock's voice rang out from within, calling them in. Corvo pushed open the door and stepped in first, Soap following suit.

The Admiral was alone, sitting at his desk and tapping ashes from a half-smoked cigarette into an empty glass. He watched Corvo and Soap enter with a hard, critical gaze, his lips pressed tightly together. The haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, the smell hitting Soap as soon as he stepped in. Havelock was a stress smoker.

"Right to the point," Havelock began as Soap closed the door behind him. "Corvo, I'm sure you've been informed by now about Martin. Despite what's happened you're to leave for the High Overseer's Office tomorrow as planned. It will be easier to take him out while he's having his scheduled meeting with Captain Curnow as you'll already know of his activities and location, making it easier to strike." Havelock paused to take a deep drag of his cigarette. "Miss Curnow came to me earlier with concerns about that meeting; she says that she has suspicions that Campbell is plotting against Curnow's life. If Martin hadn't been caught, we've have been able to confirm that information by now."

"If it's true," Corvo put in, "then I can use it to my advantage. Discover Campbell's plot and turn it against him."

"Yes," Havelock agreed. "I like your thinking. Your secondary objective," he added, "is to find and recover Martin at all costs. You know how important he is to us, Corvo; I hope I don't have to explain that to you."

"You don't."

"And where do I feature?" Soap interjected, crossing his arms. "With all due respect, sir, I don't see why I'm privy to any of this information."

"Because you're going with Corvo," Havelock explained, tapping more ashes into the glass. Corvo and Soap exchanged surprised glances as the Admiral continued; "I need someone to make sure Martin is extracted safely from the Office of the High Overseer; Corvo can't be running back and forth across Dunwall, now can he?"

"Admiral, MacTavish has never been out in the city," Corvo pointed out. "How will he be able to do anything besides hinder me?"

"It doesn't take a genius to follow you from the boat to the Abbey," Havelock responded curtly, "and I'm sure any grown man can retrace his steps. So long as you can guide him to wherever Martin's being held, he and Martin can find their way back." Havelock pointedly glanced at Soap. "Can't you?"

"Of course, sir.”

"Besides, we need as much of your effort as possible concentrated on taking out Campbell," Havelock continued, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Sending you alone to take care of two missions at once when we have another person capable of fighting to aid you would be a waste of time." Again, Havelock stared hard at Soap. "You are strong enough to fight, yes?"

Soap took a deep breath. "I am."

“Then you should be able to defend Martin should there be any trouble escorting him back to Samuel.” Havelock’s gaze turned on Corvo. “I don’t need to tell you what he’s liable to have gone through at the hands of the Abbey. Am I right?”

Corvo hesitated. “You’re right.”

“And I'm sure you're capable of explaining the details of the mission to MacTavish?"

"I am," Corvo confirmed.

"Good," the Admiral finished. "Then you two will leave as planned tomorrow evening, at six; that'll give you two and a half hours before Campbell's meeting with Curnow, not counting the time it takes to transport you to Clavering Boulevard. Dismissed."

Soap and Corvo both gave a short nod before the two men turned together, heading for the door. Corvo opened it and stepped through first, and Soap moved to follow him—

“MacTavish. Wait.”

Soap stopped and looked over his shoulder, watching as Havelock crushed the remains of his cigarette on his desk. He looked up at Soap with a stone cold gaze.

"Don't disappoint me."

 

* * *

 

The following day was filled with preparations for the coming mission. Corvo explained the details to Soap; they were to infiltrate the Office of the High Overseer, the seat of the Abbey. Corvo’s goal, and the ultimate goal, was to find and kill the High Overseer, Thaddeus Campbell. Campbell was the head of the Abbey of the Everyman, the man to whom all answered in the matters of all things spiritual. He was also the Lord Regent’s closest ally and confidant, as well as the possessor of the Black Book, a journal notorious for containing blackmail material and information used by Campbell to gain leverage in the Abbey. The Loyalists believed it may contain the location of Emily Kaldwin, and even if it didn’t, it was still a useful tool in gaining influence within the Abbey’s ranks; once Campbell was eliminated, it was also Corvo’s job to find and secure the Black Book for the Loyalists.

Soap’s job was to find Martin and safely extract him from the Abbey while Corvo dispatches the High Overseer. The plan was simple enough; get in, find Martin, and get out; they would rendez-vous at the extraction point, and if all went well, they would be back at the Hound Pits with Martin and the Black Book in tow.

While Corvo was armed to the teeth with Piero around to help him check over his weapons and gear, Soap didn't have much to speak of; he had only his M1911 with limited ammo and his combat knife. Admiral Havelock had offered him his cutlass, but Soap had never held a sword in his life and there wasn't enough time to teach him even the most basic of sword fighting skills. Corvo and Soap both decided that it was best if they went about their mission as quietly as possible; they would have to, anyway, to prevent the Office of the High Overseer from going under lockdown, which would cause them to lose Campbell and, potentially, Martin.

Along with his weapons, Soap also had his scarf, which he'd saved from the day he arrived at the Hound Pits. It was warm and big enough to cover his head and face if he wrapped it right. Even though no one in Dunwall knew his face like they knew Corvo's, he ran the risk of being recognized in the future if he was ever seen. The scarf, along with the hood of his jacket, would do well enough in concealing Soap's identity.

Soap spent the final moments before departure inspecting his M1911 despite knowing very well that it was in working order. He went over his ammo; five bullets, and that was it. He would have to make them count. Soap had only his combat knife to fall back on; no rifle, no explosives, none of the fancy toys he had...before.

Soap suddenly felt very underprepared for what was to come.

 

* * *

 

The sun was dipping in the horizon by the time Soap and Corvo were ready to depart for Clavering Boulevard. Admiral Havelock and Lord Pendleton wished the two men luck as they left the pub, crossing the courtyard towards a set of concrete stairs that led down to the dock. The air was cold, the brisk breeze carrying the promise of rain as dark clouds drifted in from the west; it was going to be a cold and wet night, it seemed.

Down at the dock, Samuel Beechworth waited in his little riverboat, the  _Amaranth._ Soap had seen the man before, and met him briefly, though they never talked; an old, weathered fellow, Samuel had seen much during his years as a sailor and as a navigator of the river that cut through Dunwall, his history written in the wrinkles of his face and the silver of his hair.

"You ready to go, gentlemen?" Samuel called out as Corvo and Soap approached, standing up in his boat and setting one foot on the concrete landing before him. "I'd rather get going before it starts to rain."

"Yes, let's go," Corvo agreed, stepping into the riverboat without hesitation and taking a seat. Samuel headed to the front of the boat and started the engine as Soap, too, climbed into the boat, settling himself on the seat across from Corvo. The boat rocked gently beneath him, the river water rippling as the moving boat and the wind disturbed it. Soap thought he saw the shadows of fish gathering around the boat, large black masses in the murky brown water.

Soap unrolled his scarf, starting to drape it around his face as Samuel piloted the boat out into the open river, concealing his nose and mouth. As he pulled his hood over his head, Corvo took out a glinting metal object from his long coat; a metal mask, its face donning the likeness of a grinning skull. Corvo, too, concealed himself, placing the mask over his face and tugging his own hood over his head before turning and staring out at the river, the surface of the murky water illuminated by the dying light of the setting sun.


	6. Back in the Saddle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 09/21/15  
> Major Edit: 06/03/17; 1/20/18  
> 

A light, steady rain had begun to fall by the time the _Amaranth_ approached the riverbank, the cold rain running down Soap’s coat and dripping from his hood. The chill seeped through whatever his jacket failed to cover. The dark clouds blotted out the evening sky, turning the heavens a dark, angry grey. The lights of the city cut through the darkness, golden-orange light cast upon the old grey-and-brown stone buildings. As he rubbed his hands, warding off the chill-induced stiffness in his fingers, Soap hear the thunderous horn of a trawler as the large ship slowly made its way downriver, its dark silhouette stark against the lights of Dunwall.

"The City Watch will be all over Clavering Boulevard," Samuel stated, breaking the silence that had long settled over the  _Amaranth_ 's passengers early during their trip. "'Specially once you get closer to Holger Square."

"Yes, security at the Office of the High Overseer will be much tighter," Corvo agreed, his voice muffled behind his mask. Soap thought the mask was morbid—a little too morbid, in fact. The blue lenses over Corvo's eyes seemed to watch Soap from every angle, staring blankly at him, and the image of the grinning skull promised nothing but death.

"If we wanna avoid getting seen, then, we should use the alleys and side streets to get close," Soap suggested, averting his gaze from Corvo's macabre mask. "There might still be trouble, but if it means avoiding most of the Watch, I’d say it’s worth the risk." Times of crisis bred desperate people, and desperate people often enough bred criminals—and Dunwall was most certainly in a time of crisis. However, Soap would rather take his chances with gangs and street thugs than with law enforcement; being seen by some criminal on the streets or a civilian trying to live their life would carry less weight than being seen by the City Watch and potentially raising an alarm, or worse.

"I agree," Corvo put in. "I'd rather not tangle with the City Watch tonight."

Samuel huffed, piloting the  _Amaranth_  as close as he could to the riverbank. "Well, be careful, now," he warned, "because Slackjaw and his men have been real busy lately, and anything not controlled by the City Watch is gang territory."

“Slackjaw?”

“Heard of him, Corvo?”

“Can’t say I’m familiar with the name.”

Samuel cut off the engine once he’d positioned the riverboat as close to the riverbank as he could, then jumped out onto solid ground. “He’s a gang leader, in charge of them Bottle Street boys.” Corvo stood, he and Soap watching as Samuel tied the boat down to a pair of wooden posts hastily erected in the river mud. “Got this whole district under his thumb. They don’t play around, either. Dunno which is worse, them or the City Watch.” Samuel sniffed. “You just take your pick.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Corvo responded. He turned to Soap and gestured for him to disembark first; he obliged, standing up and stepping past Corvo and onto the riverbank. Soap's boots sank into the mud, tinted green with algae; the silt gave a wet  _pop_  as he took a few more steps forward. The smell of river brine and dead, decomposing aquatic matter rose from beneath Soap’s boots.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Samuel said, turning to face Soap and Corvo once they were both on solid ground. “I’ll be waiting right here ‘till you’re ready to leave.”

Soap gave a short nod. “Thanks, Samuel.” The squelch of boots sinking into mud sounded beside him as Corvo took his leave; taking this as his cue to follow, Soap turned without another word, trailing close behind Corvo as they picked a path through the thick mud and tall weeds of the riverbank.

Packed earth broke the patches of mud and water along the narrow riverbank, and rising from the solid ground was a set of concrete stairs which led to a higher strip of earth, providing an elevated path away from the bank itself. Soap’s gaze followed the staircase, then travelled up to an overpass that jutted from the mainland and abruptly ended a good distance out into the river—the remains of a bridge, Soap decided, long collapsed into the river and abandoned. Two men were standing on the overpass, tossing canvas-wrapped objects down into a pair of large river boats anchored beside the high strip of earth where a third guard stood watch, his back to the staircase. From the bottom of the stairs, Soap could hear the heavy thud of each object as they hit the boats—

 _No, not objects,_ Soap realized with a pang in his gut. The heavy thud that resounded from each wrapped canvas form was immediately recognizable, and even in the darkness, Soap could see the stains on the off-white canvas. _Bodies._

The men on the overpass were unaware of Soap and Corvo’s presence, too engrossed in their work to notice the riverboat at the bank. The lone guard by the boats hadn’t noticed either, and wasn't going anywhere anytime soon; he would have to be neutralized. Before Soap could step up to the task, Corvo had already climbed the stairs and slipped behind the guard. He jabbed something into the guard’s shoulder, quickly clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle his surprised cry. Almost immediately the guardsman went limp, and Corvo dragged his body off into the shadows, stashing him out of sight. He then stood and turned to face Soap, beckoning for him to move on.

As Corvo continued forward, Soap lingered behind to see just what Corvo had done. He approached the guard’s body and crouched beside him to get a good look; the man was still breathing, clearly unconscious, with a dart filled with a pale green liquid lodged firmly into his shoulder. The liquid gave off a gentle glow as it slowly drained into his body. It was some kind of fast-acting sleep poison, Soap decided, and with an impressed hum he rose back to his feet and caught up to Corvo, who stood at the foot of another set of concrete stairs.

“Are you done touring the riverbank?”

Soap huffed. “I just wanted to see whatever it was you did.”

Corvo shrugged and he gave a low scoff, then he turned and climbed the last set of stairs. Soap followed close behind, allowing Corvo to lead him up to the streets.

Once they were streetside, Soap quickly noticed just how empty his immediate surroundings were; up on the higher levels of the street, he could hear guardsmen conversing, though from where he stood, not a single one of them was visible. Down on the lower streets, Soap quickly noticed, not a soul was to be seen or heard anywhere.

"There's a curfew in place," Corvo murmured. "The City Watch will no doubt attack us on sight, thinking that we're gang members breaking curfew. Not that curfew would make much of a difference. Look at this place." Corvo huffed as he kicked an old bottle that was lying in the middle of the street, watching it clatter away. "This part of the district is dead.”

Soap briefly recalled Corvo's description of the plague a few days before, and his mind wandered to the bodies that the guards on the overpass were disposing of, the canvas wrapped around the corpses stained red and brown. All those bodies, from this part of the district...Soap felt his stomach twist into an uneasy, sickened knot.

“We mustn’t linger.” Corvo’s voice interrupted Soap’s thoughts as he turned his head, finding a street sign not far from where they stood. “We’re on Endoria street. Come. We must find a way to Holger Square.”

Corvo started down the street, heading away from the upper streets where activity could be heard. Soap fell in step behind him, observing the buildings around him as they walked. Almost all the buildings in sight were residential and clearly abandoned, some of them boarded up or locked down and painted with red markings, warning of rats and the presence of plague. There were no lights visible from any of the windows of homes that weren't completely closed off; most of the city’s light came from the bright streetlights and more active districts across the river. This district itself was still populated, made obvious by the guard presence, but the part of the district on the edge of the river was dying—if it wasn’t already dead.

"How many people did you say this plague killed?" Soap found himself asking, his hand absentmindedly settling on the grip of his pistol. He didn't like the way the abandoned buildings around him were making him feel.

"From what I heard, about a third of the city," Corvo replied. "It may very well be more.”

Soap didn't respond as he tried to imagine this. A third of the population—gone. Men, women, children, entire families—gone. So many lives ended by a disease that seemed unstoppable. The resemblance to plague epidemics back home was uncanny, a realization that sent a shudder down Soap’s spine—

There was a crash as a ceramic pot shattered a few yards away from where Corvo stepped. He jumped and swore in his mother tongue as he reached for his weapon; a pistol, similar to the one the Admiral wielded. Drawing his M1911, Soap’s gaze shot up to where the pot had come from, raising his gun in preparation for a fight.

Seeing the source of the pot, Soap sighed and lowered his pistol, Corvo deflating in a similar manner; an old woman talked to herself as she tossed garbage from the second-floor balcony of what Soap assumed to be her residence, whether legitimate or settled into once the previous owners had been driven out by plague. The ceramic pot was followed by old bottles, shattering further away from where Soap and Corvo now stood. Obviously, she hadn't seen them approach, or was too engrossed in what she was doing to care.

"By the Outsider," Corvo grumbled, lowering his weapon as the old woman turned and wandered back into her house. He started to walk further down the street when he suddenly stopped again, his head whipping around to face the house that the old woman resided in.

"What's up?" Soap questioned, stepping closer to Corvo and glancing between him and the house. “She’s gone, mate. Nothing to worry about.”

"There's something in there," Corvo responded after a few moments of silence. "Something I need. I need to go inside."

Soap recoiled, baffled. "Are you  _daft_?" he demanded. Corvo turned his head to face Soap, and Soap could feel his glare from behind the blue lenses of the mask. "We only have so much time on our hands, Corvo; this isn't a bloody field trip. We need to find Martin and the High Overseer isn't gonna kill _himself_."

"It'll only take a minute," Corvo assured him, although Soap was far from convinced by his tone, which was as cold as the rain that fell upon them. Soap bristled in irritation as Corvo then turned and walked away, heading for the front door to the woman's abode without another word.

"What could this place have that could  _possibly_  help us?" Soap pressed, following Corvo up to the door. Corvo grabbed the door handle and attempted to turn it. The handle stopped abruptly—locked. Corvo huffed in annoyance and stepped back a few paces, examining the front of the building as Soap continued; "This place is inhabited; you can't just waltz in willy-nilly and take whatever you want."

"I can, and I will," Corvo replied coolly, his head turning so that he faced the balcony. "We can get in that way—"

"How do you know what's in there in the first place?" Soap spat as Corvo began to approach a pile of rubble that provided a way up to the balcony. Corvo stopped and turned to face Soap again, silent as he contemplated an answer. Soap could clearly imagine the frown beneath his mask, but the mask itself stared blankly at him with its dead-eyed lenses.

"I have my ways," Corvo replied in a slow voice, choosing his words carefully. "That's all you need to know,  _MacTavish._  Now, I'm going inside. You can come with me, or stand out here in the rain and wait." He paused, then added, "Or, if you're so concerned about time, since you know this city  _so well_ , you can find your own way to Holger Square and fetch Martin by yourself. And dispatch Campbell while you're at it, if you'd be so kind." He turned, grumbling over his shoulder. "I'm sure you can navigate the Office of the High Overseer yourself. You're a grown man, after all."

Soap scowled under his scarf, resting one hand on his hip as Corvo climbed the pile of rubble up onto the balcony. He watched as Corvo then slipped inside the darkness of the house. This was all a massive waste of time—Soap would much rather be on his way to the Office of the High Overseer so that he could get this job over with. He could just find his own damn way through the district without Corvo's help; how hard could it be? Soap was a grown ass man, he could read and follow street signs and retrace his steps. The seat of the Empire’s dominant religion would be hard to miss anyway.

_And why don’t you kill the High Overseer while you’re at it? Then escort Martin back? How about you let Corvo adventure around while you drive the damn boat back to the Hound Pits? If you can even find where you’re going._

Soap's scowl deepened, and then he swore under his breath, holstering his M1911 and running up to the rubble pile. He scrambled up with it little care for grace and jumped onto the balcony, marching into the house. He wasn't about to stand in the rain with his thumb up his ass, waiting for Corvo to finish whatever task he'd dreamed up for himself.

Inside the house, everything was dark, without even a single candle to light the room. To the left, Soap saw the looming shape of the bow of a riverboat, much like Samuel’s, the tip of the boat just barely scraping the ceiling. Soap couldn't tell if he was more confused about the boat’s purpose, how the boat was cut in half, or how the old woman got the damn thing inside and on the second floor in the first place.

"I figured you'd come after me," a thickly accented voice mumbled from the darkness. Soap squinted, making out Corvo's form on the far side of the room, waiting patiently in the doorway.

"Aye, well, I just wanted to see if you were really the type to steal from old ladies," Soap replied gruffly, striding across the room up to Corvo. With a low chuckle, Corvo turned and stepped away, careful to make his footfalls quiet against the wooden floor. With a low sigh, Soap followed close behind.

The two men stepped into a hallway almost as dark as the room they'd just been in. There was a set of stairs nearby, and a dim light filtered up from the lower floor, illuminating the wall and the flakes of dust that floated through the cold air in a golden-orange glow. Corvo crossed the hall and headed down the stairs, his boots lightly tapping against the aged wooden floors. Soap lagged a few paces behind, putting some distance between himself and Corvo as he crossed the hall and began his descent downstairs. Unease prickled up Soap’s neck as he proceeded further into the house, a sense of regret settling in his gut.

_We shouldn’t be here._

There was the sound of clattering glass and tin and shifting paper as the resident of the old house went about their chores, the noise accompanied by the shifting of garbage and the clink of silverware. Soap paused on the stairs, ignoring the way Corvo continued forward without pause as he suddenly registered a voice; it was low and scratchy and sounded as though it belonged to a woman—likely the old woman they had encountered earlier. From where he stood, Soap could just barely hear the woman’s muttering:

“I _told_ you, the _knives_ go on the _left_!” Alarm struck Soap and he lunged forward, grabbing Corvo’s arm. When he turned to face Soap, drawing a breath to speak, Soap signaled for Corvo to silence himself and listened closely as the woman continued, voice tinged with exasperation, “They’re _always_ gone on the _left_! You never listen!”

Soap stood in silence, ignoring the air of irritation that rolled off Corvo in favor of listening for any sort of reply from a second party. They waited, seconds dragging on like hours, but no one replied to the old woman’s remark, nor did she speak again. Soap released Corvo’s arm with a steady exhale, his alarm subsided; Corvo, however, didn’t seem the least bit surprised or relieved. His mask glinted in the dim light as he turned and stepped down the remaining stairs.

As he stepped on the landing at the bottom of the stairs, Soap narrowly missed one of many empty cans strewn about the room. Trails of garbage were littered between islands of old bottles and opened cans, discarded newspapers and posters stripped from the walls outside, and rubble which Soap couldn’t identify the source of. At the far end of the room, the old woman he and Corvo had encountered earlier stood at a sink, her back to them as she sifted through the sink’s contents, the clink of silverware sounding from where she stood. A stab of pity entered Soap’s chest as he watched the woman lift and shake a can before tossing it aside; she was alone, sifting through garbage just to survive—it was an existence he wouldn’t wish on anybody, especially on a helpless old woman during a time like this. Shame crawled up his neck as Soap was suddenly aware of how _wrong_ all of this was.

Corvo hesitated a moment before continuing forward, heading for a door on the far side of the room, not far from the resident of this trash-strewn house. His footfalls became lighter as he drew closer—until he froze in his spot when the old woman paused, Corvo himself only a few strides away from the door. Where it led, Soap didn’t care to know, and the heat of shame on the back of his neck was quickly replaced by a prickling frustration.

"Darling? Is that you?"

Soaps heart leapt into his throat as the old woman turned around to face Corvo, the stiffness of his shoulders mirroring Soap's. She reached forward with one pale, bony hand, long fingers protruding from a fingerless glove gingerly resting against Corvo's shoulder, whose chest heaved with a deep, sudden breath. In the light, Soap could see that the woman's eyes were a foggy, unnatural blue; she was blind, thick cataracts having formed over her eyes long ago.

"Is that you, my dear husband?" the woman asked, eyebrows pulling upwards in surprise. Before her, Corvo stood as stiff and silent as a stature, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The woman  _tsked_  once, lowering her hand and turning away from Corvo, who slowly began to uncurl his hands from the tight fists they'd formed. "Oh, my eyes aren't what they used to be."

Soap started to take a step back, itching to leave. This woman was  _blind_ on top of being senile, and considering the circumstances, it was likely that her real husband was long dead. Soap was a soldier, not some thug who trespassed on the property of poor old women, and certainly not the type to steal from them. He didn't care about whatever it was Corvo wanted; Soap wanted no part of this, and that much was for certain. He started to turn towards the stairwell, set to leave the house from where he entered, when the old woman turned to face him, her thin, sloppily painted lips curving upwards in a slight smile.

"And you've brought a guest," she added, the statement stopping Soap dead in his tracks. "How delightful." Soap watched as the old woman lifted her hand towards him, as if she could see him— _she can't see me, not with those eyes_ —and beckoned. Her nails glimmered in the light; they were carefully trimmed.

"Come closer, dear," she urged. Soap glanced at Corvo, half-expecting a worried gaze that mirrored his own sudden anxiety, only to be met by the dead stare of Corvo's mask. "Let Granny take a closer look at you."

Hesitantly, Soap approached the old woman and stopped a few paces in front of her. She shuffled forward and reached up, her hand slipping under his hood, under his scarf, gently brushing against his cheek. Something in Soap made him stand rigid, the fear crawling through his gut overriding the urge to flinch at the old woman’s icy touch. There was something…off, something _wrong_ about this woman. It was downright foolish to be afraid of a frail old lady, and yet something about her made his skin crawl; just what it was, he couldn’t quite place.

 _Stop scaring yourself, John. She's just a lonely old woman._ An overwhelming sense of shame washed over Soap again as the woman lowered her hands again, and he shifted uncomfortably where he stood. This woman was far from a threat; she was just senile. Lonely. Soap tried to assure himself that there was nothing wrong with this woman, nothing deeply abnormal, and yet his stomach refused to untangle from its uncomfortable, anxious knot.

"How nice of you to bring a guest, dearie," the old woman crooned through a yellow-toothed smile. She turned to face Corvo; hiss face wasn't visible, but Soap could still feel an aura of discomfort radiating off him as the woman addressed him once more. Soap watched as Corvo slipped an arm into his coat, reaching for something—a weapon, perhaps. Was Corvo really prepared to harm this woman?

 _No._  It wouldn't come to that. Corvo might've been getting the same feelings Soap was, but from what Soap had seen of him, he wouldn't go so far as to harm an innocent old woman just because she was a little creepy.

The woman opened her mouth to speak again but was interrupted by a loud banging coming from further down the hall—from the front door, perhaps—and covered her mouth with her hands, surprised. Soap and Corvo both jumped, the two of them startled by the sudden noise, Soap going for his pistol and Corvo pulling whatever it was he'd reached for from his coat; it looked like the hilt of a sword missing its blade. Soap remembered seeing it before, hanging from Corvo’s belt on the day they’d first met.

"Oh, my, my, my, I think I have gentlemen callers again, but not the way I used to, not the  _nice_  ones," the old woman remarked, lowering her hands so that they folded over her chest. "I hear them, and they're not very polite ones, either."

 _"Gentlemen callers." What a way to put it,_ Soap thought to himself, huffing and shaking his head. Judging by the way she described them, it was likely that they were gang members or street thugs looking to extort money or whatever else they could out of this old woman. Soap wasn't at all surprised; with hard times came more excuses to be cruel. Not even little old women were safe at a time like this.

The old woman's lips curled in a sneer, and she pressed her hands closer to her chest. " _Granny Rags, Granny Rags, let us in,_ " she mocked as voices called from the front door, deep and angry and unintelligible as the pounding on the door only grew louder. "Pah, they'll leave if they know what's good for them," Granny added, her sneer shifting into a scowl, "but what a  _bother_."

Corvo visibly stiffened once again as Granny Rags reached for his arm with one hand, pulling something from her pocket with the other; a little key, which glinted in the dim light of the cramped, rubbish-filled room. Granny ran her hand down Corvo's left arm until she came upon his hand, prying apart his fingers and pressing the key firmly into his palm.

"Here's the key to the front door, love," Granny Rags crooned, smiling up into Corvo's mask. "You and our guest will see to those ruffians, won't you?"

Without a word, Corvo yanked his hand from Granny's grasp, closing his fist around the key as he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall. Soap glanced at Granny Rags; the old woman stared in the direction Corvo had gone, a knowing smile ghosting across her lips. Deciding not to linger, Soap turned and followed Corvo down the hall, slipping after him into a sitting room not far from the door.

"We're not leaving without taking care of whoever's at the door," Soap stated, earning a nod of agreement from Corvo. Neither man were keen on letting Granny’s ‘guests’ harass her, despite the irony of the situation. "I'll go upstairs and see how many there are from the balcony—"

"No need," Corvo interrupted. He turned in the direction of the door and paused, tilting his head to the side. There was a long stretch of silence as Soap, frustrated, watched Corvo stare into empty space—or rather, watched his mask stare into empty space—the yelling and hammering on the door growing louder and louder with each passing moment.

"There's three of them," Corvo finally said. "All of them armed. Cleavers. We're outnumbered, but if we surprise them—which we will—we'll have the advantage."

Soap stared at Corvo, brows knitting together in a frown. "How in God's name could you possibly know all that?"

"Now's not the time," Corvo replied dismissively. "One of them's at the door, and the two others are standing behind him, one to the left, and one to the right. I'll go up to the balcony and come down to flank them, and you'll open the door and surprise them."

"They're expecting a blind old lady, not us," Soap put in, Corvo nodding in agreement. "We'll have the upper hand. I'll take the one at the door—"

"—And the other two are mine," Corvo finished, tossing the key he'd taken from Granny Rags to Soap, who caught it in one hand. The old thing was small, and worn; it had been used many times over.

"That’s _assuming_ you’re right," Soap pointed out with a shake of his head as Corvo started to leave. "I don't understand how you could possibly know all that.” Soap briefly considered tacking on a ‘ _what, can you see through walls or something?’_ before deciding better of it.

"As I said," Corvo muttered over his shoulder, "Now isn't the time." With that, he left, rushing out of the sitting room and down the hall.

Once more, Soap shook his head in disbelief, standing alone in the sitting room as he gave Corvo ample time to get into position. If he was wrong, Soap wasn't going to let Corvo forget it. He checked and double-checked his M1911 before leaving the sitting room as well, stepping up to the front door. He unlocked the door and quickly shoved the key into his pocket before raising his pistol, reaching forward with one hand and yanking the door open.

The man closest to the door froze in his spot, fist still in the air as though he was ready to pound on the door again, a look of surprise crossing his face. He looked young, younger than Soap, with scars adorning his gaze and stubble darkening his jawline. There were two men behind him, standing to the left and to the right just as Corvo had predicted; they looked just as surprised as the first man, their jaws going slack.

Soap leveled his pistol between the eyes of the man closest in front of him and squeezed the trigger, the shot reverberating through the street corner. Four bullets left. The man’s head snapped back and he crumpled to the cobblestone. There was a shout, and the other two men barely had time to reach for their weapons before a shadow dropped behind the man to Soap’s right.

There was the clatter of metal, and the scream of the man to Soap’s right drowned in gurgling as Corvo twisted his head to the side and plunged a blade into the side of his neck, ripping it forward and free in one fluid movement. Blood spurted from the gash as Corvo shoved him to the ground. Just as the third man drew his cleaver, Corvo pulled his pistol from where it was strapped across his chest and took aim. The gunshot cracked in the air as he squeezed the trigger, and the last man was sent flying by a shot that tore through his chest.

Silence fell upon the street corner just as quickly as it had been broken. Soap holstered his gun as Corvo made a disgusted noise and wiped his sword—and his right hand—against the back of the man whose neck he’d sliced open, cleaning off as much blood as he could on the man’s heavy jacket before standing up straight. Soap couldn’t catch what Corvo did with his hands, but whatever he did caused the blade to retract back into the hilt, out of sight. _Nifty._

"Shouldn't we move the bodies?" Soap asked as Corvo stowed away the sword and walked up to the front door, kicking the body of the man Soap had killed along the way. Leaving the bodies would attract unwanted attention, and even if Soap and Corvo were gone by the time the bodies were discovered, Soap didn't want to give Granny Rags any more trouble than necessary.

Corvo stopped and glanced over his shoulder at the bodies, then shrugged. "The rats will take care of it soon enough," he said matter-of-factly as he continued inside, walking back down the hall to where Granny Rags had last been seen. Soap hesitated a moment, observing the bodies left on Granny's doorstep.

Corvo had been right. There were three men, one by the door and two a few feet away. A rat had already come along and started to sniff at one of the bodies; the one farthest from Soap, the one with the hole in his chest. That gun of Corvo's did a frightening amount of damage. All the men were, indeed, armed with cleavers, the blades tucked into their belts as they had no proper sheaths. The rain picked up, the blood of the dead men mixing with the mud on the street.

 _Three men, one in front, two in back. Cleavers._  Corvo’s prediction was far too accurate to have even been an educated guess. What Soap wanted to know was, how did Corvo _know?_

With a sigh, Soap backed into the house and closed the door, locking it once more. By the time he pocketed the key and started back down the hall, Corvo was nowhere to be seen.

Soap reentered the room where he and Corvo had met Granny Rags. The old woman was there by herself, facing the doorway as though she'd been watching and waiting. When Soap appeared, she smiled and raised one hand in his direction, palm up.

"Oh, I knew you'd take care of those louts for me, dearie," Granny Rags said, beckoning for him to come closer. "Come give me the key, now." Soap stepped forward and dug the key out of his pocket, content to return it. He decided that he may as well; he just wanted to get the hell out of here and return to the mission at hand, now that Corvo was finally getting what he wanted. Soap placed the key on Granny's gloved palm, and she smiled, gently closing her fingers around it before stuffing it back into her own pocket.

"Thank you, dearie. Your friend is upstairs—I have a gift for the two of you," she remarked, clasping her hands together over her chest once more. Soap raised a brow, deciding to stay and listen as Granny Rags continued, her voice dropping in volume. "Oh dear, you may not find a use for it though, not like he can. It's a gift from the Outsider, carved from the bones of the deep dwellers. I think your friend will cut a lovely figure with it, don't you?" The old woman paused to laugh, a short, twinkling sound that inexplicably sent a shiver down Soap's spine.  _The Outsider? Great, this woman's a damn cultist._  "Oh, I remember how we used to dance... Now. Go on, dear. Go upstairs."

 _You don't have to tell me twice._  The words lingered on Soap’s tongue as he spun around on his heel and hurried out, leaving Granny behind as he sped up the stairs and back down the hall. He stepped into the room on the second floor, then halted as he registered the scene before him.

Corvo was standing in front of the makeshift shelter fashioned from the section of riverboat—Soap still couldn't imagine how it possibly got there—his mask glinting in light thrown from the candles that had been lit on the floor, atop piles of rubbish. The candles surrounded a pale trinket; it seemed to be pieces of bone held together by metal scraps and cord, a black design painted on its face like the one on Corvo's left hand—a tattoo, which Soap had once noticed and asked about but was never given an explanation of.

Corvo glanced over his shoulder at Soap, who was still unprepared for the way the dead blue lenses of Corvo's mask bored into him. "This," he said, "is unexpected."

"What is it?" Soap asked, stepping closer. He thought he heard a low hum reverberating from where the pale object lay, and has he stepped even closer, it grew in volume. Soap also heard a low thumping sound, quick and frantic, like the beating of a heart. He was unsure of where the sound was coming from and if he was really hearing it in the first place, but nevertheless it made Soap's skin crawl.

"A rune," Corvo answered simply, kneeling before the object surrounded by candles on the floor. Golden candlelight was cast across the rune's black-and-white face, and yet, somehow, something about it seemed...dark, as if the light wasn't enough to illuminate it. The small shadow it cast seemed to wave and ripple, the movement too slow to be caused by the natural flickering of the candles, and the face looked so dark one would think it was in the presence of one candle rather than the five Soap counted. When Soap inched closer to get a better look, the sound of a beating heart got louder, as did the low humming. It wasn’t his imagination; the rune was making that sound.

"Corvo...is that thing  _supposed_  to be making noise?" Soap asked. Corvo didn’t turn away from the rune. Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, he added, "Please tell me it's making noise and that I'm not just imagining it."

"No, it's making noise," Corvo confirmed, reaching for the rune with his left hand. "To be honest," he added, "I'd be concerned if it wasn't making any noise at all." He closed his fingers around the rune, which was slightly too big to fit in the palm of his hand, and stood with the trinket in his hand.

The humming and the heartbeat stopped, an eerie silence falling over the room as a cold wind suddenly swept through, blowing out the candles. The wind came, not from the outside, but from the hallway, sending a chill up Soap's spine. Corvo took a step back from where he'd grabbed the rune and turned to face Soap, freezing inexplicably and facing him— _no, not me._ Soap realized. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.  _Behind me._

"I hope you like the little gift I got for you." Soap's heart leapt into his throat as he whirled around, coming face-to-face with Granny Rags, who stood just barely a meter away from him with a small smile tugging at her lips. Over the pounding of his heart in his ears, Soap heard her add, "It's the least I could do for keeping those  _louts_  away."

Soap took a step back, his heart racing in his chest. He didn’t have the slightest clue as to why he wasn’t able to hear Granny Rags approach; perhaps he was too enthralled in the rune. Soap reprimanded himself for allowing such a thing to startle him, all because he was distracted by a noisy trinket.

Still, part of him was convinced that up until that moment, he and Corvo had been alone.

Granny Rags sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I can't bear these Bottle Street children," she remarked as if the three men at her door were mere pests and not dangerous individuals who wouldn't blink at harming the likes of her. "Ruffians," she continued, "Every last one of them. Rotten apples." Soap felt uneasy at the nasty sneer that twisted Granny Rags' features as she added, "And that Slackjaw is the worst of the lot."

There was a pause as Granny Rags, scowling, went silent, her jaw clenching as she thought. Soap looked over his shoulder at Corvo, who was carefully tucking the rune into his coat, treating the trinket as though it were made of glass.

"You know what I just thought of?" Granny Rags continued, regaining Soap's attention. The scowl had vanished from her face, and now she looked between Soap and Corvo— _looked? she's blind!—_ with a thoughtful expression on her face. "You dearies could do something else for me. Another little favor." She smiled over Soap's shoulder, in Corvo's direction, as she added, "And I'll give _you_ another present."

Soap heard footsteps behind him, and moments later he felt Corvo's hand grip his shoulder and pull him close. "I don't like this," he muttered, Soap straining to hear him through the mask. "I'm getting what I came for," he said, his voice dropping even lower, "and we're leaving."

Soap nodded once in agreement. There was something off about Granny Rags, something that Soap couldn't put his finger on. Whatever it was, it felt... _insidious_. He didn't like the way Granny's eyes stared so intently, as though she could see clear as day through those cataracts, didn't like the way she clearly knew much more than she was letting on. And the satisfied little smile on her face as she proposed her little deal—an occult artifact in exchange for some sort of retaliation against the gang—made Soap’s stomach twist into an uneasy knot.

There was a stretch of silence as Granny Rags stared blindly in Soap's direction, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Soap felt Corvo shift behind him, taking a small step back, and Soap found himself absentmindedly reaching for his gun. Corvo had spoken so quietly that it had been hard for even Soap to hear, and yet Granny Rags looked as though she had heard him perfectly. Not only that, but she seemed...frustrated. Angry, even, and something deep in Soap's gut told him that he didn't want this little old lady to be angry with him.

Suddenly, the cold, angry look on Granny's face was replaced by a small, knowing smile. "Of course," she said, "you boys must be very, very busy. That's alright." She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed before continuing, "I have what you came for. It's outside, in the backyard. Take it, and go." Without another word, Granny Rags turned and wandered off, mumbling something under her breath that Soap couldn't catch.

Soap let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and looked back at Corvo, who began to relax from his rigid posture, relieved that the old woman was gone. "What did she mean?" Soap demanded, turning fully to face him. "She said that she had what we—what  _you_ —came for.”

Corvo hesitated. "She knows that I came for a rune."

"Didn't she just  _give_  you one?" Soap growled, gesturing at Corvo's coat. "You have what you came for, so let's just go—"

"This isn't the one," Corvo interrupted. "There's another one...I didn't know she had two, I only heard one—"

" _Heard_?" Soap interjected, his brows pulling together in a scowl. "How on God's green Earth do you  _hear_  these things all the way from the God damn street?"

Soap felt Corvo's eyes bore into him from behind the mask; Soap wished he could just tear off the damn mask and look Corvo in the eyes personally rather than just stare into those dead blue lenses again. "It's...complicated," Corvo answered, much to Soap's irritation. "Now is not the time for explaining. Now, you can wait here for me if you want, but I'm going to get what I came for. It'll only take a moment." Corvo stalked out of the room, Soap turning to face him as he disappeared down the hall.

This entire situation was fucked; Corvo just decided to waltz into some senile old cultist's house to steal some pretty trinkets because he could "hear" them all the way from the street, when Soap couldn't hear one until he was in the same room as one. Beneath his scarf, Soap's lip twisted into a frustrated sneer, and he exhaled sharply through his nose before marching off after Corvo. Not even an hour in the city and things have gotten far too strange for Soap's taste. 

_I'm definitely in a bloody coma._

Soap quickly caught up with Corvo, who'd only made it as far as the stairs. Neither man said anything as Corvo took the lead, the two of them walking down the stairs and entering the room where they'd met Granny Rags, the old crone nowhere to be seen. The door on the other side of the room, once closed, was now cracked open, purple light spilling from the opening. Soap came to a stop as Corvo continued forward, peering curiously at the door and the light coming from behind it.  _Just what does Granny keep out there?_

Soap stepped beside Corvo as he pulled the door open, the two of them standing still in their spots as they registered what was before them. A sheet of rain poured from the heavens, falling upon flattened grass and spots of mud that had been tread upon many times over. A gentle slope led down to a small yard surrounded by a tall fence, the yard bending around the house, the end of it out of sight. From a spot that was hidden from the doorway was the source of the purple light that cut through the darkness, and Soap distantly heard a low hum; Corvo was right, there was another rune.

Corvo stepped forward first, advancing down the slope, Soap following close behind, making a face under his scarf as the rain assaulted him. The two of them turned the corner at the bottom of the hill and, once again, came to a stop, finding themselves face-to-face with what Soap could only describe as a shrine.

It was tall, protected from the rain by a crudely crafted hut made of sheet metal and plywood. Purple fabric trimmed with gold cascaded from the ceiling of the shrine, framing a small stand where a rune sat atop a pillow, also covered in purple fabric. Yes, Granny Rags was most definitely some sort of cultist. This rune hummed louder than the one before, and, once again, Soap heard a frantic heartbeat, the sound louder, closer, not as though it was coming from the rune, but as if it was coming from  _Corvo—_

Soap looked Corvo’s way and saw something in his coat frantically shift. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as whatever _it_ was continued to move about, the movement both subtle and stark—

Before Soap could gather enough sense to ask  _what the hell was going on_ , Corvo stepped forward and closed his hand over the rune. Like before, the humming and the frantic beating suddenly stopped, the sound of rain on earth and metal being the only thing breaking the chilling silence.

"Alright, you got what you wanted, now let's get the hell out of here," Soap urged, moving to turn and leave before noticing Corvo's reaction—or, rather, lack thereof. Soap paused as he realized that Corvo was frozen in his spot, his hand still anchored on the rune.

"Oi..." Soap murmured, taking a cautious step in Corvo's direction, who still didn't respond. "You alright, mate?" He reached forward, placing his hand on Corvo's shoulder, and immediately jerked his hand away, feeling as though he'd been shocked. Through the wet fabric of Corvo's clothes, he felt... _abnormally_  cold, his body prickling with unnatural static.

“ _What the hell—_ ”

Corvo jolted out of the trance as suddenly as he went into it, startling Soap into taking a step back. Silently, Corvo shoved the rune into his coat before turning on his heel and walking away, bumping into Soap as he went down the yard and headed up the hill. Soap hurried after him.

"Oi, what happened out there?" Soap demanded as he and Corvo reentered the house, grinding his teeth when he didn't get a reply. Corvo started to walk down the hallway for the front door, stopping when Soap grabbed his shoulder. "That way's locked.  _Answer_  me, damn it!"

"Granny has the key, right?" Corvo's voice was cold and stilted.

"Aye, Granny has the damn key.  _What happened?!_ "

"It's nothing," Corvo replied, turning and heading for the stairs; Soap, scowling under his scarf, followed close behind. "We need to get to the High Overseer's office. No more fooling around."

 

* * *

 

Corvo had been right when he had said the rats would arrive soon enough; upon their descent from the balcony, Soap was met with a congregation of rats that had gathered around the bodies on Granny’s doorstep, their chattering heard long before they were within sight. The swarm descended upon the corpses, tearing through fabric and burrowing beneath the clothes of the street thugs to greedily gnaw at their flesh. Soap winced when he noticed that the rats had already made good work of the faces of the three men; one of them was already missing both eyes, he noticed, and another’s skull was peeking through bloody flesh. A swarm this big and this hungry could easily take down two grown men—lucky for Soap and Corvo, the rats let them pass, satisfied with the meal they were left with.

The swarm of rats devouring the three dead thugs were the only living souls besides Soap and Corvo on the eerily quiet lower streets, a distinct air of loneliness hanging over the district as the two men made their way through the winding alleys. Soap kept track of the signs they passed as Corvo lead him down an unfamiliar path; at the end of Endoria Street, they hung a left and went down Bottle Street.

The cobblestone turned into packed earth, slick with mud that glimmered in the street lights. Bottle Street was more of an alley than anything else, the claustrophobic path between brick apartments strewn with garbage. It was less than five minutes before Corvo suddenly changed course once more, making another left and disappearing down a wider alley. Soap noted the sign nailed to one of the nearby buildings as he followed:

**_Blood Ox Way_ **

This street was wider and just as desolate as Endoria Street and Bottle Street had been, mud squelching under Soap’s boots where the earth wasn’t packed as tightly. The rain picked up and Soap pulled his hood further over his head with a frustrated grunt; his jacket was doing a well enough job of protecting him from the rain, but it was still torn from his fall at Prague, and a shiver ran up his spine as cold rain seeped into his clothing.

A frustrated noise from Corvo distracted Soap from the invasive cold. He was standing still a few paces down the street, and Soap quickly saw why: several buildings down was a brick wall a story high and topped with a wrought iron railing, no doubt separating Blood Ox Way from the upper streets.

 "We'll have to take to the rooftops," Corvo stated. A rat scurried across the narrow alley before escaping into a small hole at the bottom of a boarded-up door, its glistening hide blacker than coal. "We'll be able to see where we're going, and avoid the upper streets."

Soap braved a glance up at the buildings around him through the rain, taking note of just how high their sloped roofs were. "What I want to know is how you suggest getting up there in the first place," Soap grumbled, blinking and dropping his head as rain just barely missed his eyes.

“We'll find a way," Corvo assured. Soap turned to shoot Corvo an expectant look, only to discover that he had already wandered towards a set of concrete stairs further down the alley. With a purse of his lips, Soap followed Corvo up the stairs and, once at the top, found himself on a landing between three buildings; to the left and right stood two buildings that looked like apartments, or perhaps houses. Reaching the rooftops of either one of them, Soap decided, was out of the question, at least from the outside; one was three stories tall, and when Soap craned his head back to check, the other was at least a story taller.

“This might be our best bet.” Corvo’s voice distracted Soap from the buildings flanking them and he turned his attention to the building in front; it was much shorter, and though it was far from low enough for either man to simply pull themselves onto it, it was a promising enough route. From where he stood, the roof seemed flat enough, and in Soap’s eyes it was just a matter of reaching it.

Soap turned his head, looking for something to climb onto—Corvo did the same, and quickly their eyes fell on the same pile of discarded wooden boxes shoved into a shadowed corner beside an old booth. Waving Soap along, Corvo walked up to the boxes and pushed them into a better position, the scraping of wood muffled in shifting mud. As Soap stepped forward, Corvo climbed on top of them and, from there, to the roof, grunting as he pulled himself on the wet tiles. Soap followed him up, the old wood creaking under his boots and threatening to break under his weight. Corvo offered Soap his hand and, taking it, Soap hauled himself onto the roof. After muttering his thanks, Soap stood still and watched Corvo carefully walk to the other side of the roof, peering downwards, before turning and waving for him to follow.

"There are ventilation pipes that lead along the side of this building and the one beside it," Corvo said as Soap approached, pointing out the wide, flat metal structures that winded along the sides of the buildings below them and to their left once Soap was close enough to see. "We can use them to get a bird's-eye view of the upper streets and figure out a route around."

"Fine, but don't blame me if we slip and break our necks," Soap mumbled, looking down at the street on the other side of the building he stood on. This building wasn't shorter at all; its foundation just rested a much lower street, and in reality just as tall as the buildings that had surrounded him on Blood Ox Way.

From where he stood, Soap could see a massive black mass swarming along the street, occasionally blotting out the cobblestone; rats, hundreds of them if not more, all gathered in the abandoned alleyway.

If he and Corvo fell, there wouldn't be anything to clean up.

Corvo scoffed. "Speak for yourself," he replied. Soap winced as Corvo suddenly jumped onto the piping below, far too confident that it could hold its weight. Tension settled in Soap’s shoulders as he watched Corvo crouch down and start to creep to the left, shoulders perpendicular to the wall.

 _Alright, John, if you're careful, you'll be fine._  Soap kicked the mud off his boots, scraping his soles against the shingles for good measure, before he crouched down and gingerly extended one leg downward, testing his weight against the metal. Satisfied, he slowly lowered himself onto the piping and followed Corvo, taking caution in each footfall. The piping was flat and wide enough so that he didn't have to have his back to the wall when he moved, but he still stuck to the wall as much as possible; the idea of falling made his stomach drop to his feet, and if by some miracle he did survive a fall from such a height, the rats would quickly end him.

Soap lagged behind Corvo as the two men followed the piping that lined the side of the building, their movements slowing to a near crawl as the piping angled upwards for a meter or so before leveling off. Just around the corner, Soap could see the edge of a balcony railing peeking out from behind the brick wall, and as he and Corvo inched forward, Soap could see the upper street and the buildings that stood along it, as well as a few of the guards patrolling below. The two men stopped, Corvo turning his head rapidly as he searched for something else to climb on. Soap searched too, to no avail—another dead end.

"Great," Soap grumbled, carefully turning so that his back was to the wall, pressing up against it. "What the bloody hell are we gonna do now?"

Corvo swore under his breath, looking around one more time for something to climb on before giving up. There was a moment of silence as he thought before he, too, turned so that his back was pressed against the wall, his head turning to face Soap. Soap stared into the skull-faced mask, wondering just what was going through Corvo's head.

"Soap. I need you to trust me."

Soap huffed, raising a brow at his masked companion. "Why?" he questioned. "Are you about to do something stupid?"

"I'm serious, John. Do you trust me or not?"

Soap raised a brow at the sudden use of his first name, but chose not to comment on it. “Do I have much of a choice?” He sighed. “What are you planning to do?”

Corvo's answer was to extend his right hand to Soap, stretching out his fingers almost expectantly. Hesitantly, Soap grabbed Corvo's hand, his grip going tight in response to Corvo's firm grasp. He didn't see what the point of all this was, nor did he understand why Corvo was extending his left hand towards the roof across from and above them, palm out, his black tattoo glistening as the rain hit his skin.

 _Aye, this bastard's about to do something monumentally stupid_ —

A gasp died in Soap’s throat as a sudden burst of blue and orange cut through the darkness, the tattoo on Corvo’s hand pulsing with light as black mist surrounded his hand and snaked down his left arm. Soap’s nails dug into the back of Corvo’s hand as electricity crackled in his ears, a distinct hum crawling through the rain-heavy air—

"Pray that this works." Corvo paused. "And try not to throw up."

There was a blur, a split second where Soap felt nothing below his feet, felt lead-heavy and weightless all at the same time, the wall behind him gone. Not a second passed before everything snapped back into place and Soap was on the roof on the other side of the street, far above where he and Corvo had been crouching earlier.

There was a split second where Soap couldn't even begin to register what happened, and then all at once his mind—and his stomach—caught up with him. Soap tore his hand from Corvo’s grasp as he scrambled to rip the scarf off his face. Dry-heaving, Soap fell to his hands and knees on the orange shingles, some distant part of him praying that he wouldn’t throw up or slip and fall or both.

 _What the fuck was that? What the FUCK was that?! What the fuck, what the f—_  Soap trembled violently, his entire body cold to the bone as he realized what Corvo had just done. They'd crossed the gap— _three stories, no four, four fucking stories!—_ in less than an instant. They'd teleported? No, that kind of shit was only possible in movies and fairy tales, there was no  _way_ that they could've done that—

_But we did._

Soap was jolted out of his racing thoughts as a firm hand grasped his shoulder, looking up to stare into the eyes of Corvo's  _stupid fucking_  mask for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. "John?" he leaned in close. "You're alright, you're safe."

" _Safe?!_  What the bloody hell did you just do?!" Soap spat, slapping Corvo's hand away as he scrambled further up the sloped roof. Corvo followed him up carefully, his head tilted to the side—that ugly mask of his looked almost  _mocking_ now _, God damn it—_ Soap looked away, rubbing his arms frantically with his hands as he struggled to calm himself down, teeth chattering as his body refused to cease its trembling, his blood roaring in his ears. "I don't—I can't— _What the fuck was that?!_ "

"You remember when I told you about the Outsider?" Corvo asked, his voice firm.

"Of course I fucking do!" Soap snapped, though in reality he hadn't committed much about the Outsider to memory. He'd been half asleep when Corvo discussed it, and all in all Soap figured it highly unlikely that the Outsider would be involved in his activities in Dunwall. "But what does that have to do with—"

"He isn't some myth that the Overseers warn against to keep the populace in line. He's real." Soap dared a look at Corvo, staring as he lifted his left hand again, tattoo facing outward. The mark suddenly burst into light and color again, black mist rising from his skin like steam. "And," Corvo continued, his voice a low growl, "he gave me this."

"This is insane.  _You're_ insane." Soap shook his head and looked away again. How was any of this possible? A glowing tattoo given by some old god or whatever-the-fuck that let a man  _teleport_ , gifted to Corvo—how long ago? Before his imprisonment? Before his escape? After? There were a lot of things Soap was willing to accept with enough evidence and little choice otherwise, but this was right up there with being brought to a completely different world against his will by some freak rift in the space-time continuum. This was pushing it. This was  _beyond_  pushing it.

Soap groaned, reaching up and rubbing his forehead, feeling a pounding ache in his skull. "You’d better fucking explain this. All of it.”

"I will—later," Corvo responded, his voice much gentler as he reached for Soap again, grabbing his wrist. Soap looked up at him, wishing that he could take that damn mask off and get a good look at Corvo's face, get a good look at what was going through his head. "Right now, we need to find Martin and the High Overseer. Compose yourself."

Soap closed his eyes, taking a few moments to calm his breathing, the trembling slowly ebbing away. He pulled his wrist from Corvo's hand, adjusting his scarf again so that it covered the lower half of his face, and with a shaking voice, he asked, "What now?"

"Take my hand."

Soap opened his eyes and looked around, noticing that there were no other roofs within jumping distance; the only way to get from rooftop to rooftop was to do...whatever it was Corvo had done before. Nausea welled in Soap’s gut and his face twisted into a grimace as he took Corvo's right hand again.

Corvo squeezed Soap's hand. "Don't be so frightened," he consoled. "We don't have much farther to go. See that?" He pointed in the distance, and following the direction of his finger, Soap finally noticed the wall on the far side of Clavering Boulevard, constructed of grey stone and bearing two statues of some man Soap couldn't identify, along with two towers hastily fortified with sheets of metal. Between the two stone busts, high above the street below, hung a sign that read HOLGER SQUARE in bronze relief, illuminated by floodlights hanging underneath. Corvo was right; the wall wasn't far away at all, and it would take one more big "jump" to be able to reach it.

"We just have to make it there," Corvo explained, "and then we can return to the streets." Soap turned his head, looking back up at Corvo before averting his gaze from that  _damned mask_ , squeezing his eyes shut. "Are you ready?"

"Aye. Just. Just do what you have to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Chapters seven and eight are coming soon! Sit tight!~~
> 
> EDIT: do you remember, the 21st night, of september,
> 
> ADDITIONAL EDIT: love was changing the minds, of pretenders, while chasing the clouuuuuds awayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
> 
> ADDITIONAL EDIT EX: Our hearts were ringing, in the key that our souls were singing, as we danced in the night, remember, how the stars stole the night awayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy


	7. Doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 09/26/15  
> Major Edit: 06/03/17  
> 

The rain was only getting worse.

Admiral Havelock could hear the rain pounding against the windows as he paced his chambers, too restless to stay in one spot for too long. A deep frown was settled on his aged face, his teeth grinding as doubt gnawed at the edge of his mind.

Corvo and MacTavish had been gone for an hour. That was to be expected; the trip to the Distillery District via boat took a long enough time. Part of Havelock regretted having them leave so late; it was raining tonight, which meant the ride up the river probably took longer, which meant Corvo and MacTavish had less time to navigate the city. That meant time was wasted. Time they could’ve spent taking down Campbell, time they could’ve spent tracking down his Black Book, time they could’ve spent finding Martin—

_Finding Martin. MacTavish’s job._

MacTavish was a newcomer not only to the conspiracy, but to Dunwall itself, if Piero was to be believed. He'd only been given a few days to heal from...whatever had injured him before his arrival and adjust to his new surroundings, and suddenly he was thrust out into the world on a high-priority mission with only Corvo and his own wits to aid him; by the Outsider's eyes, it was MacTavish who was responsible for making sure Martin returned in one piece. If he found some way to fuck this up, then the conspiracy wouldn't have their strategist, their eyes and ears inside the Abbey, their means to  _manipulate_  the Abbey against Burrows. Yes, the conspiracy would feel the loss of Martin as keenly as a lost limb, and there was a chance that it would crumble entirely without him. Havelock wished that he had someone more reliable to do the job; and yet, Corvo's hands were full with the High Overseer, and Soap was the only one in the Hound Pits strong enough and, hopefully, capable enough to accompany him.

That was even assuming Martin could be found. It was possible that he was already dead, disposed of once the High Overseer wrenched as much information out of him as possible. If such a thing was possible to begin with; Havelock trusted Martin, knew him well enough that he would rather die than give up the secrets of the Conspiracy, but was he the type to break if just the right type and right amount of pressure was put on him?

What was even being  _done_  to him right now?

Another thought entered Havelock's mind; what if Martin had already been sent away, to some other part of the city or some other part of the country or some other part of the  _Empire_ , beyond the knowledge and the reach of the Conspiracy? Havelock shuddered, unsure if that was worse than Martin simply being dead.

 _Outsider's eyes._  Havelock hoped that Martin was still drawing breath somewhere within the walls of the Office of the High Overseer. The Loyalists couldn't lose him—they simply couldn't afford it. If they did...

If they did, a swift death for the conspiracy, a swift collapse, would be merciful.

No, the ones who needed to be cut down were the Lord Regent and his allies. That was Corvo's job. The sole reason he was broken out of Coldridge was because Martin proposed that by using him rather than taking the risks of seeking out and hiring a blade, they could have someone who would depend on them, someone who could trust them and do what they say without question. Corvo seemed to be a perfect fit; he was a skilled fighter, renowned across the Isles as the best swordsman in the Empire, and he was beyond loyal to the Kaldwins. After all, they were looking to take down the men who caused the death of the Empress, the men who caused all of this in the first place.

After all, they were looking to find Emily.

They promised to help him find Emily and put her on the throne. They promised to clear his name and restore his honor. They promised to shelter him from everyone who wanted him dead, promised to nurse him back to health, so long as he did as he was ordered.

And so far, they've kept their promises. They sheltered him, fed him, gave him weapons, gave him time to recover and regain his strength for as long as they could before time began to turn against them and it became a matter of  _now or never._  Truth be told, Havelock himself wasn't sure if a month was long enough for Corvo to recover from whatever he'd experienced at Coldridge. In that short month he'd gone from a gaunt shell of a man to some semblance of his normal self, disregarding, Havelock thought, the state of his mind. But his mind didn't matter; so long as he struck fast and true, so long as he clung to some scraps of sanity, he was good enough for Havelock, good enough for the conspiracy. Though, if Havelock had any choice in the matter, he'd have given Corvo at least a few more weeks.

Havelock's mind shifted to MacTavish once again. The mystery. The unexplained outsider. The Admiral didn't want to believe what Piero had told him, about the veil and alternate worlds or whatever the hell he'd gone on about, but he didn't have much of a choice but to believe it. No man would carry on a lie as bizarre as MacTavish's story; either he was telling the truth, or he was some sort of lunatic.

 _With strange technology that doesn't exist anywhere in the Isles_.

He didn't know much about MacTavish, but what Havelock did gather was that he was a soldier. He didn't have any swordsman training, a fact that Havelock was dismayed to learn earlier that day, but he did know how to fight otherwise, which was good enough for him. As long as he didn't get into any swordfights and kept his distance using that strange little gun of his, and used his wits, he'd be fine. But could Havelock really trust him? Sure, MacTavish relied on the conspiracy, but who's to say he wouldn't flee the first chance he got?

_He does that, and you have Corvo to send after him._

Havelock was temporarily distracted by a knock on his chamber door, then the sound of the heavy metal door being pushed open, hinges creaking like they were in pain. The Admiral stopped his pacing, glancing over and meeting Lord Pendleton's gaze as he peered through the doorway, the two of them staring at each other briefly before the wiry noble stepped past the threshold, welcoming himself in.

"Are you sure sending MacTavish was a good idea?" Pendleton asked, Havelock huffing and striding over to his desk. Pendleton reeked of wine and cigarettes; he'd been smoking and drinking his worries away, more than usual. The Admiral frowned, trying to find solace in the fact that at least he wasn't alone in his worries.

"It was desperate, I know." Havelock sighed. "It's...the best I can do." The Admiral sat down at his desk and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat. Pendleton kicked the door closed behind him before stumbling across the room and plopping himself down on Havelock's loveseat, leaning back into the thin cushions and staring up at the ceiling. "I don't want Martin to stay in that Abbey a second longer than he has to. MacTavish seems capable enough of retrieving him while Corvo dispatches the High Overseer."

"I know the reasoning behind it," Pendleton muttered, looking over at Havelock as he fumbled around for his lighter. He watched as Havelock, finding it, lit his cigarette and held it up to his mouth, taking a deep drag. "But do you  _trust_  him? Can he do the job?"

Havelock's frown deepened into a scowl. He leaned back into his hair, taking a few more drags of his cigarette as he tried to regain his train of thought. "...I trust him about as much as I can trust a man I've only known a few days," he responded truthfully, "but considering the circumstances I don't have much of a choice."

_Sending him out on a low-priority mission and taking him around the city would be one thing. Finding Martin and bringing him back safe is something entirely different._

Havelock looked up at the ceiling, exhaling a cloud of smoke and watching it snake upwards. Despite how much he worried, it was all out of his hands now; it was too late to turn back. All Havelock and Pendleton could do at this point was to sit. Sit and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Chapter 8 is coming soon!~~
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: weeelcome to the hotel california, such a lovely place, such a lovely face,


	8. The High Overseer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 01/17/16  
> Major Edit: 06/07/17  
> 

Once Soap and Corvo crossed that final gap—Soap’s stomach lurching violently just as it had the first time around—the trip to Holger Square was nearly complete, the two men traversing the remaining expanse of rooftop on foot. Corvo led the way, picking the safest route to their destination across shallow-sloped shingles and flat concrete. Their journey ended on the sloped roof of a house beside a much taller building ten or so meters away from their target, Soap taking care on the rain-slick shingles as he followed Corvo up to the wall of the neighboring building. He gave Corvo a wide berth, crouching down on the roof as Corvo peered around the wall and surveyed the street below. Soap looked downward as well, examining the scene before him.

From his position three stories above street level, Soap could see that this wall housed a tunnel, this being the only obvious route to Holger Square. Metal rails, most likely for some sort of railcar, cut through the cobblestone street and disappeared into the tunnel, at the mouth of which patrolled a lone guard in front of some piles of boxes and metal scraps. The guard's head was angled downward; Soap couldn't tell what he was doing from this distance, but he was clearly not paying attention to the job at hand. Light spilled from the tunnel behind him, bathing the mouth of the tunnel in an orange glow.

"That tunnel is the only way into Holger Square," Corvo explained, his voice low enough that Soap had to strain to hear him. "It was built decades ago to separate Holger Square from the rest of the district. Since the worsening of the plague, from what I hear, fortifications have been made."

"The leader of the Empire's dominant religion strengthens a wall separating him from his people during their hour of need?" Soap scoffed. "Why am I not surprised."

"The strongest walls in the world won't save him."

“That’s nice, but this guard might. Getting around him would be easy if we weren't”—Soap looked straight downwards and scowled—"three stories up and ten meters away. How the hell are we gonna get down there?"

"I'll find a way," Corvo muttered, his voice muffled by his mask. He angled his head downwards, then clicked his tongue to get Soap’s attention. Soap looked up to see that Corvo was pointing; following his finger, Soap spotted a pipe like the one they’d used to get to the rooftops. It wouldn't be a straight jump; it was a full two stories down and it wasn't even directly below them, only starting where the tall building before them started.

Soap felt his stomach twist.  _But..._

Wordlessly, Corvo stood back and waved Soap in front of him. After a moment of hesitation, Soap relented and stepped forward, feeling Corvo’s hand grip his shoulder. Closing his eyes, Soap reluctantly reached up and rested his hand over Corvo's. An instant of simultaneous weightlessness and crushing weight came and passed, and Soap opened his eyes and found himself in front of Corvo on the piping, crouching with his shoulder pressed up against the wall. He released Corvo’s hand from where he’d been holding it against his shoulder, and after a wordless urge to  _go_ , Soap started down the piping with Corvo close behind, the two of them creeping as far down as the piping extended until they were directly above the patrolling guard and his "checkpoint" of discarded boxes.

Corvo's head turned to and fro, looking for some sort of way down. "You think we can jump down there?"

"From this height, on that stone? Probably, but we could easily break our ankles."

"Figured." Corvo reached out with his right hand expectantly.

Soap pursed his lips, taking Corvo's hand and squeezing his eyes shut as Corvo lifted his left hand. The inexplicable heaviness and weightlessness returned briefly before Soap opened his eyes and found himself on the street below, behind the boxes that the guard was patrolling in front of. The guard's back was to them, and without a moment of hesitation Corvo shot upright and sprinted into the tunnel. Soap swallowed his nausea and ran after him, his footfalls light on the cobblestone.

Soap blinked in the light of the tunnel, spotting a metal wall farther down the tunnel once his eyes adjusted; it was clearly new, the relatively clean metal further fortified with metal sheeting and plastered with City Watch notices and various other posters and advertisements. A door in the center was the only thing separating Soap and Corvo from the way forward. Thankfully, when Corvo approached the door and tried it, the handle swung freely. He pulled the door open just enough to fit one person and waved Soap forward. Soap passed through the doorway, Corvo slipping after him and pulling the door closed behind them.

Now Soap’s eyes had to adjust to darkness, the tunnel this side of the door submersed in shadow as the lights overhead had been left off. The tunnel extended for less than ten meters before opening into a small square, the windows of the surrounding buildings dark as pitch. At the center of the square stood another tall statue; a bust situated on a tall pillar, constructed of marble, depicting the same man whose likeness graced the wall that separated Holger Square from the rest of the district. The pillar stood atop a wide foundation, upon which Soap could make out a dark form; a man, detained in metal stocks that forced him to sit on his knees, illuminated by the floodlights placed at the statue's base. Below the stocks, at the bottom of a short set of stairs, stood another man, his back to the tunnel as he addressed the prisoner. Both were wearing blueish-grey uniforms, darkened by the rain that steadily fell. He couldn't tell, but from this distance, Soap thought he saw that the standing man was wearing some sort of head covering.

"That must be Martin," Corvo growled, stepping forward and pulling something from his belt; a crossbow, Soap realized, the contraption small enough to be held in one hand like a sidearm. "Let me take care of this." He crept forward as he pulled a dart from his coat, loading it into the saddle of his crossbow. The dart glowed dimly, the light a pale green— _sleep poison_ , Soap noticed, the same stuff that Corvo stuck that guard on the riverbank with. Soap watched as Corvo levelled the crossbow at the standing man and pulled the trigger, dart flying free. The target jolted as the dart hit its mark, and there was a split second where Soap was afraid that the poison wasn't working before the man collapsed. The man in the stocks looked up, leaning into his restraints.

"Let's go." Corvo holstered his crossbow and ran down the tunnel, Soap following close behind. The man in the stocks was, indeed, Martin, his face pale and dark bags like bruises hanging under his eyes. He looked exhausted, as though he'd been there for hours.

"I was wondering when you would show up," Martin rasped as Soap and Corvo drew close enough to hear, shooting them a weak smile. The Overseer looked worse up close than he did at a distance; Soap frowned at the sickly pallor Martin's skin had taken on, his smile never reaching his eyes. His hair was plastered to the top of his head, dark brown strands glued to his glistening forehead. His uniform clung wetly to his body, and Soap could see that Martin was trembling, his fingers slowly flexing as he waited to be freed.

“MacTavish,” he said. “What a surprise to see you.”

Soap couldn't help the words that came out of his mouth. "You look like shite."

Martin chuckled dryly. "Thanks."

Corvo kneeled at the body of the neutralized Overseer at the foot of the steps, while Soap stepped over him, walking up the stone steps to where Martin was restrained. Beside the stocks, to Soap's left, there was a lever that came up to about waist height. Soap's first instinct was to grab it and pull, and he scowled when the lever didn't budge—locked.  _Of course, why the hell wouldn't it be locked?_

"Our friend Jasper has the key," Martin muttered, nodding in Corvo's direction. Soap turned expectantly to face him. "Front pocket." When Corvo shoved his hand into the downed Overseer's front pocket and found nothing, Martin sighed and added, "Other front pocket."

Corvo quickly found the key, pulling it from Jasper's coat and tossing it up at Soap, who caught it with both hands. The key was bronze, just slightly too big to fit in the palm of his hand. Soap turned back to face the lever and, finding a slot at its base, inserted the key and unlocked it before trying the lever once more. It moved freely this time, sliding into the open position with a creak. Not a moment later, Soap saw the stocks come loose and Martin fall to his hands and knees, the Overseer letting out a long, drawn-out groan. Soap abandoned the lever, helping Martin to his feet as Corvo started to drag the downed Overseer's body off towards some alley.

"Would you mind grabbing his mask for me?" Martin called after him, Corvo's only response being a curt nod. Soap gave Martin some space as he groaned and rolled his head back, struggling to work out the stiffness in his neck and shoulders. "It feels good to stand up straight again," he grumbled, tugging on his uniform. "I can't thank you two enough."

"Aye, well, save it for when I get you to safety," Soap said. Corvo returned from stashing the Overseer's body, mask in hand, and handed it to Martin, who took it and turned it over in his gloved hands carefully. Soap took the opportunity to get a good look at the thing; the mask was meant to cover the entire head down to the base of the neck, made of the same blue-grey cloth as the rest of the Overseer uniform. The face of the mask was bronze and featured the bastardization of a man's face, the expression twisted into a grimace with a symbol reminiscent of a pitchfork carved into the forehead.  _The Abbey takes its fear-mongering seriously._

"So, the Admiral sent you to be my babysitter, then. Where did Samuel leave the two of you? At the end of Clavering Boulevard?"

"Yes, at the riverbank," Corvo confirmed with a curt nod. "MacTavish will take you there—"

Martin held up one hand, cutting Corvo off mid-sentence. "There's no need," he replied, Soap's brows furrowing in confusion and Corvo physically recoiling at the statement. "We'll all be better off if MacTavish goes to the Office with you."

"Sir, with all due respect, you  _need_  my help," Soap pointed out just as Corvo drew a breath to speak. Corvo fell silent and allowed him to continue; "If someone catches you, you have no way of defending yourself."

"Nothing will happen to me," Martin insisted as he slipped on the mask taken from the downed Overseer, taking a moment to adjust it. "I don't know what Havelock was thinking by sending you, but if you come with me you'll only slow me down. And besides, Corvo, you're going to need all the help you can get in the Abbey."

"How long have you been in the stocks?" Corvo demanded.

There was a pause. "Worry about yourself," Martin finally said, voice muffled from behind the stolen mask. "Corvo, the Office is under  _very_  tight security tonight, tighter than usual, and Curnow brought a well-sized patrol with him to tonight's meeting. When they passed through here I counted somewhere between ten and fifteen men."

"Between ten and fifteen?" Soap whistled lowly, crossing his arms. "Curnow couldn't make his distrust clearer."

"And rightfully so," Corvo mumbled.

"Campbell has been trying to weasel his influence into the City Watch so that his Overseers have freedom in enforcing Abbey law," Martin explained, sharing the information that the Admiral and Corvo had neglected to share with Soap earlier. “Even more than they already _have,_ I should say. With the Lord Regent supporting him, and with the backing of his edicts, the High Overseer has largely managed to 'persuade' captains in the City Watch to allow the Abbey more leverage in their jurisdictions—except Curnow, who insists that law enforcement lay solely in the hands of the City Watch. Campbell doesn't like that."

"Curnow and Campbell have been at it for weeks," Corvo stated, "and at this point, it's either come to a peaceful resolution or fight it out. They've arranged this meeting of their own volition to discuss a compromise." Corvo scoffed, adding, "Problem is, I know them both; Curnow personally, Campbell professionally. They're both stubborn as mules. Curnow won't bend to the High Overseer's will."

"And we both know Campbell doesn't  _compromise_ ," Martin put in. "He never has, and never will."

Soap called to memory the mention of Miss Curnow's concerns about the meeting, the suspicion of some plot against Captain Curnow passed along to Soap and Corvo through the Admiral. "Miss Curnow was right to be concerned, then," he murmured, Martin tilting his head slightly at him. Soap tried to ignore the mask's uncomfortable stare. "She believes there's some sort of plot against Captain Curnow's life."

"She may be right," Martin responded. "Before my capture, an informant managed to notify me of a suspicious shipment that arrived from Tyvia about a week before my return. Its contents haven't been confirmed, but there's reason to believe that Campbell has had poison delivered to him."

"Tyvian poison?" Corvo shook his head. "Campbell really wants Curnow dead."

"The deadliest poison available," Martin explained, "almost undetectable in alcohol. I'm sure you know this, Corvo."

"All too well. One sip of that and Curnow is gone, and Campbell will have the Office locked down to 'investigate' the assassination."

"Then you need to get going, Corvo," Soap urged. "If you're a second too late then Campbell will slip through your fingers."

"Agreed." Corvo paused, then turned to Martin. "Martin, please allow MacTavish to accompany you—"

Martin waved his hand dismissively. "I'll be fine, Corvo," he insisted. "With the security at the Office, you need Soap much more than I do, and it'll be less suspicious if I travel alone. When I find Samuel, I'll tell him to take his boat to the backyard docks behind the Office."

“Martin—”

“I insist.” Martin turned on his heel, starting to walk off. “And I strongly advise you not to follow me.” With that, Martin promptly turned and walked off, heading down the steps. He paused a moment, then glanced over his shoulder at his liberators. "May all the spirits guide you," he said in farewell, "and may our enemy's head it the floor without you taking a scratch."

Soap huffed, unimpressed, as he watched Martin depart. "How much do you wanna bet Martin gets in trouble and the Admiral kicks my sorry arse?" he grumbled at Corvo, who laughed dryly in response.

"He has a point about being less suspicious on his own, I suppose," Corvo pointed out, but judging from the tone of his voice, Soap gathered he wasn't too happy about it. They both knew that even if Martin  _did_  have a point, if something happened, it would be on both of their heads—and Soap didn't know who'd get into more shit, him or Corvo. "Besides," he added, "I suppose it'll be good to have someone watch my back in the Office." With that, Corvo waved his hand in the direction of the opposite end of the square. "Let's go."

 

* * *

 

The Office of the High Overseer was impressive.

It wasn't impressive in the sense of the Vatican or some other grand church or temple, but it was still impressive in its own right. The Office was tall, and what it lacked in ornate grandeur it made up for in its brightly colored banners bearing the mark of the Abbey and its white marble walls, looming before a sprawling courtyard where multiple Overseers and City Watchmen patrolled. The center of the courtyard boasted yet another marble bust on a tall white pillar. The Office was illuminated by lights hanging from its walls and the courtyard was lit up by floodlights hanging from the second floor, the brightness starkly contrasting the black sky from which rain now poured. Golden light filtered through some of the open windows on the second level, while the windows on the lower level—along with the doors, of course—were closed.

It was either kick down the front door and take on an Abbey full of Overseers and guardsmen or slip in through the second floor, and neither Soap nor Corvo had a death wish. The two men had returned to the rooftops, utilizing Corvo's strange ability to transport them to the roof of a checkpoint constructed at one of the gates a stone's throw from the steps leading up to the Office courtyard. It was obvious that the only way into the Abbey without being seen would be through the second floor windows, and while he still wasn't used to Corvo's freaky tattoo  _whatever_ , Soap knew that the only way to get there was to use  _that._

"When we get inside," Corvo stated, "We'll head straight for the meeting chambers. We can get in through the second floor windows, and if Campbell and Curnow aren't already there, we can slip right into the chambers. Chances are, they'll be in the sitting room just a door over." Corvo paused, thinking a moment, before continuing. "When we get inside, I'll switch their glasses so that Campbell has the poison. When Campbell goes down, I'll neutralize Curnow before he can ring the alarm and make it looked like a failed assassination attempt on both of them. If it looks like he's the victim as well, it's likely he'll be spared. You'll grab Campbell's journal off his body, and we'll get the hell out of there."

"Aye, that's a good plan and all, but how will you know which glass is Campbell’s?" Soap demanded, giving Corvo a pointed stare. "It's not like you can just stick your tongue in each glass, swirl it around a bit, and tell which one's poisoned."

"...Campbell will have the glasses situated so that Curnow's is closest to the window," Corvo responded. "Campbell never liked being near windows."

"Why do I think that sounds like a bunch of bullshit?"

Corvo snorted. "And why do  _I_  think that you need to worry about what's in your own goblet?"

Soap stared at Corvo blankly. "...Was that supposed to be a joke?"

"Was it?" Corvo shrugged. "He's going to kill Curnow either way, or at least attempt to."

"Yeah, well, let's just make sure his little plan bites him in the arse tonight," Soap muttered, taking Corvo's hand as it was offered to him. He tightened his grip as Corvo extended his left hand, his tattoo bursting to life once more. The ledge that wrapped around the entirety of the Office was their destination, and a moment later the two men were there, Soap's stomach thankfully not lurching as much as the first few times Corvo used this...ability. Soap didn't like the strange feelings it gave him, but Corvo's magic tattoo-or-whatever had proven itself useful.

The ledge was just barely wide enough for one to be able to stand up and walk along it with enough caution, shoulders perpendicular to the Office; however, Soap and Corvo both remained crouched, Corvo taking the lead to the nearest open window. Soap followed close behind, casting wary glances to the courtyard far below. His memory of the fall from the church tower in Prague began to surface, and the hair on the back of his neck began to stand on end. Soap had never been particularly afraid of heights, but now he found that was something Prague had changed. He could still smell the smoke from the explosion, feel the fire at his back, the burning pain that ripped through his chest as he hit the scaffolding on his way down—

 _Get a hold of yourself._ Soap forced the memories of Prague down. He had no time to dwell on them now, instead choosing to focus on Corvo's back as he stopped in front of the nearest window. Corvo paused, seemingly staring into space, before quietly slipping inside through the open window. Soap followed, leaving the rain—and Prague—out on the windowsill.

The two men had entered a long corridor void of any Overseers or guards, stretching a little less than ten meters to Soap's right before making a sharp turn. A red rug ran down the length of the corridor, and the walls further down were lined with shelves. A little more than a meter from where Soap and Corvo entered was a door, left haphazardly open; Corvo went for it without hesitation, stepping silently into the room. Scowling under his scarf at Corvo's carelessness, Soap took a moment to listen for any approaching Overseers or guards before following.

"Christ, mate, watch where you're going," Soap muttered, his voice low yet harsh as he closed the door behind them, his back to the center of the room.

Corvo didn't answer, the sound of his boots on stone the only answer Soap received. Irritated, Soap turned his head, wondering what was keeping his response, and stopped when he realized just what they'd walked into.

The room was lit brightly by a single light dangling from the ceiling, white and nearly blinding compared to the soft golden light in the hallway. The room was largely empty, save for a metal chair bolted to the floor, wrist cuffs on the armrests, and a table upon which several bloody instruments—pliers, a knife, and the like—laid. The floor and the chair were splattered with old blood, the dark brown spatters covering the stone floor and a rusted drain just a foot from the legs of the metal chair. Massive double doors were separated from the chair by iron bars, a barred door left carelessly open, as if someone had left with the last victim with no intention of returning.

Corvo slowly approached the chair, running his fingers along the dried blood. He rubbed his fingers together, staring at his hand before turning and facing Soap. Soap couldn't imagine the expression under Corvo's mask.

"It's Martin's." There wasn't a doubt in Soap's mind.

"This blood is old, but not that old," Corvo murmured. "We should've made him accept your help."

"What's done is done," Soap growled through the nervousness that crept in through the back of his mind. He tugged at his wet scarf, which had begun to hinder his breathing, before adding, "Let's find Campbell and make him bleed."

Corvo turned his back on Soap, walking slowly up to the barred door, head turning to and fro as though he were looking around in the otherwise empty room. He approached the doors on the opposite side of the room, pausing a moment as he seemed to just stare at the wood. Soap pressed his lips tightly together; Corvo had a habit of stopping and staring randomly before recklessly diving headfirst into wherever it was he needed—or wanted—to go. There was going to be a moment where Corvo bumped blindly into some guard or Overseer, Soap thought bitterly, although thankfully that moment hadn't come yet.

"This way," Corvo muttered, pushing the double doors open. Soap winced as they creaked, then followed Corvo out of the interrogation room, relieved to leave the bloody mess behind. Across from the interrogation room was another set of double doors, but Corvo didn't enter them; instead, he stepped back into the corridor and strode down its length before peering around the corner, Soap staying a few paces behind. Corvo reached into his coat as he rounded the corner and sprinted off, his footfalls silent on the rug, and Soap looked around the corner just in time to see Corvo jump a lone Overseer, sticking a dart into his shoulder with one hand and pressing his mask into his face with the other. The Overseer went limp and as Corvo dragged the body off to stash it, Soap rounded the corner and ran after him, coming up another set of doors at the end of the hall.

Returning from where he'd stashed the Overseer, Corvo nodded at the tall doors before them; this was it. He approached them and paused, seemingly staring into space again before pushing the doors open just enough to slip through, stepping inside first. Soap followed, allowing Corvo to close the door behind him.

This was the meeting room, Soap was sure of it. A long dining table, made of dark, polished wood, stood in the center of the room atop a fine red rug. Upon the table sat a bottle of red wine and two glasses, both filled with wine; one of then, Soap knew, was poisoned. It was just a matter of figuring out which one.

As Corvo approached the wine glasses, Soap took a moment to look around. On the far side of the room was another set of doors, this one closed, and through them wafted the rise and lull of voices as two men were engaged in conversation. It was safe to assume that the men were Campbell and Curnow, their meeting already started. A fireplace was nestled in the far corner of the room, the crackling of burning logs just loud enough to obscure most of the conversation in the other room. By the open windows leaning back out to the ledge stood a bookshelf, offering Soap and Corvo a place to hide. They wouldn't be able to lean around and watch Campbell and Curnow if they entered the room without being seen, but as it was the only available hiding spot in the room, it would have to do. The windows offered a route back out to the rooftops, from where Soap and Corvo could make their way to the backyard, where Martin said he'd direct Samuel.

Soap turned his attention to Corvo, who lifted his glass on the left-hand side, closest to the window, and held it up in the air, letting the light thrown from the chandelier hanging above shine through the wine. He seemed to stare at it, as if looking for traces of poison; a stupid idea, considering the nature of the suspected poison.

"Oi mate," Soap mumbled, casting wary glances towards the double doors on the far side of the room. If there's something you're going to do, do it now."

A moment passed before Corvo reached for the glass to his right and switched it to the left side, setting the glass he'd been looking at down on the right. He then waved Soap over to the bookshelves, slipping quietly behind them. Soap took a moment to glance at the glasses before joining Corvo behind the bookcase, crouching down beside him.

"I was right," Corvo muttered, voice barely audible.

"Come again?"

"I was right. About the window thing."

Soap squinted at Corvo, whose mask stared straight ahead. "You're really something, you know that?"

"Aren't you going to ask me how I knew which one was poisoned?"

"Didn't you tell me to worry about what's in my own goblet?"

Corvo's head turned to face Soap. His mask didn't look particularly impressed.

There was the chime of a bell, and Corvo held his finger up in a gesture of silence before staring straight ahead again, his hand coming to rest on the handle of his crossbow. Rolling his eyes, Soap shook his head and reached for his own pistol, gripping it tightly. Corvo might've been sure he'd gotten the glasses right, but Soap wasn't, and he wasn't looking forward to dealing with the mess that would inevitably occur if Corvo was wrong. Hoping that Corvo had enough stupid luck to go around, Soap simply listened, waiting for Campbell and Curnow to enter the meeting room.

The bell marked the hour; nine, thirty minutes after the meeting would've begun.  _We were late._  Soap thanked the stars that the wine went untouched before then and gripped his M1911 tighter as he heard voices draw closer and closer to the doors separating the meeting room and what he assumed to be the sitting room. He pulled the gun from his holster, finger hovering over the trigger.

_Four bullets. Make them count._

"Time for drinks!" Soap heard a rough voice from the other side of the doors; by the way Corvo tensed up, muscles all going taut, Soap assumed that the voice belonged to Campbell. "I hope you won't refuse. It'll make all this  _business_  pass all the quicker."

Soap lifted his gun when he heard someone try the door handle, then grunt in frustration when the door wouldn't budge. "Locked? One of the servants must've been in here. Let me see..." The words were followed by the jingling of keys, a few mutters of irritation wafting through the door before Campbell managed to find the right key. There was a creak as the doors swung open, Soap and Corvo simultaneously pressing closer to the bookshelf. Corvo pulled the crossbow from his belt and reached in his coat, no doubt holding onto another sleep dart.

"If something goes wrong," Soap heard Corvo whisper, barely audible from behind his mask, "Campbell's the one in red."

"Men, we'll come get you when we're finished," Soap heard the voice say dismissively, footsteps passing through the threshold between rooms. "Keep each other  _entertained_ in the meantime." There was another creak, then a soft thud as the doors were pulled closed, the sound followed by two sets of footsteps rounding the dining table, walking to where the wine had been placed.

"I don't understand how this got so unpleasant." Another voice, younger, smoother. If the first was Campbell, then this had to be Curnow.

"Oh, I agree, I agree!" Campbell exclaimed. "A whore dies, and suddenly, this!" The footsteps stopped. "Will you have wine? It's a Tyvian red!"

_Tyvian poison in Tyvian wine? How appropriate._

There was a pause, the sound of glasses slowly clinking as they were lifted from the table.  _The moment of truth_. Soap levelled his breathing, forcing himself to stay calm and prepared in case something went wrong, in case  _Corvo_  was wrong. "Thank you," Soap heard Curnow say, and he stretched his fingers before tightly gripping onto the pistol again.

"Now, to business. What would you say happened last night?"

"To be honest, I'm not even sure." A clink as two glasses met in toast. "My men, your Overseers, a few whores, maybe a little too much ale." A scoff. "One harmless prank with a runaway chicken and ten minutes later, Treaver's Alley is a sea of blood and teeth."

 _Christ, what_ did _happen last night?_

There was a chuckle, the sound deep and void of amusement. "I almost wish I'd been there," Campbell remarked. There was another pause—were they drinking yet?

_Be right, Corvo. Please be right._

A jolt passed through Soap's body as the hallway-facing doors suddenly swung open, slamming against the wall as they were opened with zeal. There was the sound of panting and boots on tiled stone as the intruder stepped past the threshold.

"High Overseer Campbell!" A third voice, this one younger than Curnow's, rang though the room. Its owner sounded shaky and out of breath, voice laced with panic.

"Outsider's eyes, Jasper, calm yourself! What's happened? What happened to your mask?"

 _Jasper?!_  Soap's stomach twisted into a knot as he cast an alarmed glance in Corvo's direction. Corvo's head jerked, as if he were holding back a shout, and he fumbled in his coat before pulling something out and loading it into the saddle of his crossbow. Not a sleep dart, like Soap thought it would be, but a bolt.

"High Overseer!—I—Martin—Martin's escaped!"

There was the sound of glass slamming against wood, and Soap squeezed his eyes shut as he mouthed profanity under his scarf. "What do you mean,  _Martin's escaped?!_ " Campbell bellowed. Soap thought he heard a twinge of fear in those words.

"I don't— Sir, I don't know what happened! I was watching him in the stocks and next thing I know, he and my mask are gone and I'm lying in an alley!"

_So much for that sleep poison. You should’ve fucking put him down._

"What's going on?" Curnow demanded, his firm voice followed by the clunk of a glass as it was set down on the table. Had he drunk any of his wine? Had Campbell? Unless one of them suddenly dropped dead, there was no way of knowing. "Campbell—"

" _Silence_!" Campbell's voice had twisted into a snarl. Corvo turned his head, leaning ever so slightly from behind the bookshelf. Soap wanted to scream; he'd have shot them all and gotten that damn book by now. "Jasper, ring the alarm and put the Office under lockdown! No one's getting in or out!"

There was a flash of movement as Corvo finally jumped into action, rounding the edge of the bookshelf and springing to his feet. Soap mirrored the act, standing straight up and whipping around, aiming his pistol forward.  _The one in red, the one in red._  Corvo's words echoed in Soap's ear as a red uniform caught his eye, its wearer turning when he saw movement; a bald man, or perhaps his head was shaved, face heavily aged and eyes as dark as the night outside. His and Soap's gazes momentarily met, Campbell's face going slack as he gaped.

He squeezed the trigger.

Time slowed, and the gunshot rang over the blood beating a war drum in Soap's ears. He watched Campbell's head snap back, blood and grey matter exploding in a cloud from the back of his head. Campbell fell back, hitting the dining table with his arm and sending the wine glasses and bottle toppling as he crumpled to the ground, hitting the red rug with a dull thud. There was a moment of silence, and time sped up again as Curnow let out a cry of surprise, reaching for the gun strapped to his chest.

Jasper shouted profanity, and he barely had time to reach for his sword before there was a snap and Corvo's bolt embedded itself in his throat. The Overseer gurgled, falling to his knees as he clawed desperately at his neck before falling face first to the floor, drowning in his own blood.

"Guards! To me!" Curnow shouted, and the meeting room doors swung open. A group of men entered the room—Overseers and guards, five all together. Corvo swore loudly, crossbow clattering to the floor. He reached for his gun, stepping further into the room. Soap pivoted to face the first man who entered.  _Three bullets._

The first to go down was another Overseer, Soap's bullet tearing through his shoulder. One of Corvo's bullets took down the second, blood blossoming from the hole in his chest. Corvo reached for his sword and Soap vaulted over the bookcase.  _Two bullets._ He crossed the room, rushing to meet Curnow.

Curnow whipped around wildly, aiming his pistol at the closest person; Soap, who promptly knocked the gun from his hand. "Stand down!" Soap commanded, and when Curnow reached for his sword, Soap simply kicked him to the ground. He turned and fired at a guardsman while Curnow was stunned. The guard collapsed when the bullet passed through his chest. His head snapped back as another—Corvo's—tore through his skull.  _Two men. One bullet._

Corvo's sword was drawn in time to parry the attack of the remaining Overseer. He deflected the Overseer's sword and thrust his blade forward. It pierced his neck, and Corvo wrenched the blade free, tearing through the fabric of his mask—and his throat. As the Overseer fell Corvo freed his weapon and rushed the remaining guardsman, blade plunging into his stomach.

Corvo pulled his sword from the guardsman’s stomach and the chaos that had gripped the meeting room dissolved, the room heavy with the man’s dying groans as Corvo abandoned him where he’d fallen. Soap looked down at Curnow, who was still on the floor and very much at the mercy of the men who'd saved him. He stared back up at Soap, eyes wide and bright with anger and jaw taut. 

“At least be thankful I didn't just shoot you.”

Curnow recoiled at the the statement, gaping up at Soap as he holstered his pistol and extended a hand down at the guard captain, who simply stared at the hand offered to him. “Are you alright?”

“Outsider’s eyes, don’t feign worry for me!” Curnow spat as he slapped away Soap’s hand, making a disgusted sound. He was lying not far from where the body of Campbell lay, the front of his blue Watch uniform stained with blood that wasn't his own. "Whatever it is you're going to do, just do it now!"

"If we wanted to kill you then you'd already be dead," Corvo's voice stated from somewhere behind Soap, voice stilted as though he was trying to alter his voice.  _That's right._  Corvo had mentioned knowing Curnow personally. The sound of his voice was followed by the sound of the hallway-facing doors being slammed shut, hinges letting out a high-pitched whine. Corvo stepped beside Soap a moment later; his gun was holstered and his sword was gone, no doubt retracted back into the hilt and stashed in his coat. His crossbow had returned to its spot on his belt. "In fact,” he added, "you're lucky that we're here."

" _Lucky_?! You murdered the High Overseer and three of my men are  _dead_ —"

"And if it weren't for us, you'd be dead in his place," Corvo said coldly, Curnow falling silent and glancing between him and Soap. "Campbell was planning to poison you tonight, and without our intervention you'd be dead by now."

There was a pause as Curnow digested this information, glancing to where the bottle and glasses had fallen, dark wine staining the red rug. Soap could see a shudder pass through Curnow's body as his breath hitched, no doubt realizing how close he’d been to the bullet he’d just dodged.

"Are you really surprised?" Soap grumbled, extending his hand to Curnow again. "You should've known something like this would happen sooner or later." Curnow turned to face Soap, looking at his hand before gripping it firmly, allowing Soap to help him to his feet. Corvo stepped past the two men and kneeled beside Campbell's body, digging through his pockets. He procured a small journal from Campbell's jacket; the Black Book that Havelock had requested.

"Did you—"

"Come to save you? No." Soap released Curnow's hand. "Killing Campbell was our objective." Curnow's face had gone pale; Soap almost felt sorry for him. "Your meeting with him just turned out to be an advantage."

"I suppose that means we have to thank you, as well," Corvo remarked dryly. Curnow frowned.

"But then—"

Soap's heart leapt into his throat as the sharp blaring of an alarm cut through the deathly quiet that had fallen over the second floor of the Office, Soap and Corvo both reaching for their guns. There was the clang of shifting metal and Soap whipped around in time to see shutters closing rapidly over the windows, the path to the ledge now sealed as the shutters slammed shut. There was a harsh ring of an activated intercom, followed by a deep voice:

 

**" _ATTENTION! THIS FACILITY IS NOW ON HIGH ALERT. LOCKDOWN IS NOW IN EFFECT. REPORT TO YOUR STATIONS AND EXECUTE ANY INTRUDERS ON SIGHT._ "**

 

"Fucking hell—oi, mate, you've got the journal, now let's get the hell out of here!" Soap spat, gripping his pistol tightly with his finger hovering over the trigger. They'd done enough lollygagging with Curnow; they needed to get out,  _now_ , before the whole Office descended upon them.

"There's a door to the backyard downstairs," Corvo replied sharply, loading his pistol before drawing his sword, the blade sliding back out from the hilt. He hadn't bothered to clean the blood off it, and now red was smeared across the blade, illuminated in the golden light thrown from the ornate chandelier above them. "I know the way. We can slip out through there and find our own way to the docks. Captain, your best bet is to regroup with your men and tell the Overseer's you've been attacked. Throw them off our trail."

"After all that's happened with Campbell, do you think they'll believe me?!" Captain Curnow snapped, gesturing wildly in the direction of the hallway. "Between my quarrel with Campbell and what happened in Treaver's Alley—"

"If they choose to turn on you, you have your men to back you up," Corvo put in coldly. He strode up to the hallway facing doors and stopped suddenly— _doing his stupid staring thing again—_  before turning to Soap. "Ammo?"

"One bullet left, and then it's my knife."

"Then I'll take the lead. You watch our tail." Corvo shoved open the doors, letting them swing wide as he stepped into the hallway and started sprinting, veering to the left without checking for any oncoming guards or Overseers.  _That's gonna get our arses killed sooner or later_. Curnow quickly retrieved his weapons and ran after Corvo, with Soap following close behind, not bothering to close the door behind him. It was better to let someone else deal with the carnage in the meeting chambers.

The hallway was, thankfully, empty save for the three men escaping from the meeting room, the harsh blaring of the alarm echoing through the Office's halls. Corvo ran up to another door, this one made of glass, and pushed it open; the door led to a broad, dimly lit stairwell that winded around another, smaller version of the bust standing in the Office courtyard, light shining from the lower level. The stairwell was also void of any guards or Overseers, and Corvo led Soap and their charge down the steps, boots lightly thumping against the red carpet. As the three men approached the bottom of the stairs, an arch leading into a large main hall came into view; in the hall were a handful of Overseers and City Watchmen, weapons drawn as they patrolled the ground floor. Corvo waved Curnow and Soap over to a near wall, just to the right of the archway and out of sight of the men in the other room.

"The door to the backyard is just a few meters away, around this wall," Corvo stated once he and the others were hidden, his muffled voice barely above a whisper. "If we try to go out that way now, we'll be heard." Corvo carefully peered around the corner, presumably trying to get a glimpse of the door he was speaking of. Apparently finding it, he turned back to Soap and Curnow. "There's three Overseers and two Watchmen. We won't be able to fight them without attracting attention."

"We need a distraction." Soap glanced at Curnow at the same time Corvo shifted to fully face the guard captain, the two men staring expectantly. "You've got men out there, Curnow. Distract them."

"That much I can do," Curnow grumbled. His gun was tightly clutched in his hand as he stood. "I'll draw them out to the courtyard; you two, get the hell out of here." He started to step towards the doorway, but was stopped when Corvo uttered his name.

"Thank you, Curnow."

Curnow paused for a moment, tilting his head as he looked down at Corvo. There was a dull sort of recognition on his face, as if he knew the voice behind the mask but couldn't place where from. In the end, he waved Corvo away. "I have you to thank for saving my life, stranger," he responded, hesitating a moment on the last word. "This is the least I can do to repay you." Without further ado, Curnow stepped past Corvo, running into the main hall and calling out to the guardsmen patrolling the floor.

"Men!" Curnow's voice rang with firm authority. "The intruders have escaped! They're making for Holger Square!"

Soap sent silent thanks to any and all gods when the Overseers and Watchmen didn't seem to question Curnow's statement, the sound of departing footsteps moving swiftly away from the near end of the hall. Curnow could take care of himself and take that opportunity to escape with his men; in the meantime, Soap and Corvo had the chance to make their own escape. Wasting no time, Corvo slipped through the archway with Soap close on his tail, rounding the corner and running up to a door on the near wall. A sign marked it as the door to the backyard, and Corvo pulled it open just enough for a man to slip through. Soap went through first, Corvo following close behind.

On the other side of the door was an open corridor leading right to the backyard; the far end of the hall had no wall, exposing the inside to the open air. Low rooftops, level with the hall's floor, were visible through the sheet of rain that poured from the heavens. Soap assumed there were stairs somewhere that led down to ground level.

"It's a straight shot to the docks from here," Corvo mumbled, walking past Soap. "We'll take to the rooftops and find our way down from there."

"Let's haul arse, then," Soap replied, holstering his pistol. Sheathing his own weapons, Corvo took off without another word, with Soap sprinting after him. At the far end of the corridor, Corvo jumped the space between the ledge and the nearest rooftop, landing on the flat concrete roof with a grunt. Much to Soap's relief, the gap wasn't wide at all and he was able to mirror the action with ease.

The rain had gotten worse since the two men entered the Office, and the cold downpour sent an icy jolt through Soap's body as soon as he'd left the shelter of the hallway; he'd gotten used to the dryness and relative warmth indoors. Soap gritted his teeth, refusing to slow at the sudden change; after all, Corvo seemed barely affected in the slightest, sprinting across the roof and leaping to the next without hesitation. Soap followed, landing beside Corvo moments later.

There was a pause as the two men surveyed their surroundings, peering through the darkness and the rain, the lanterns erected below doing little to cut through the night. The nearest rooftop was on the other side of a wide walkway, the gap too far to jump across. Corvo wordlessly reached for Soap with his right hand, and Soap took it, closing his eyes and waiting for the familiar feeling of Corvo's ability taking effect. The weightless yet heavy feeling came and passed, and Soap found himself on the far roof again, his stomach twisted into a tight knot. He didn't think he'd ever really get used to Corvo's ability, but at least his reaction was becoming less and less severe.

"The docks are far below us," Corvo stated, striding across the flat concrete roof that he and Soap had landed upon, stopping at the far edge and glancing down. Beyond the building, Soap could see nothing but the dark river stretching into the distance, the rain and darkness obscuring the distant riverbank and the lights of the city beyond. Approaching the space next to Corvo, Soap could see that there was no slope or staircase leading down to the river; just a few meters of land beyond the building he stood upon, and then a nauseating drop several stories down. Through the nearly impenetrable darkness, Soap could make out the faint glow of lantern light, illuminating a concrete landing—the docks—and a riverboat docked right beside it. The faint outline of a man was visible if Soap strained hard enough—Samuel, presumably, awaiting Soap and Corvo’s return. So, Martin had reached him after all. The Overseer, however, was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he was in the riverboat itself, the inside of which was wreathed in shadow.

“I can see Samuel down there,” Soap stated, eyes locked on the docks below. “I don’t see Martin. Or a way down.”

“Martin’s there.” Corvo’s accented voice was certain, as if he could see the man clear as day. Soap peered at him curiously, deciding against asking him the questions that swirled around in his mind as he watched Corvo glance from right to left, searching for a possible way down. After all, there had to be; it wasn’t like the Overseers could just teleport down to the docks—

“Oi, what about your ability?” Soap asked, wondering why Corvo hadn’t already suggested it. It was then the realization that the ability might not be able to take them that far hit him; this suspicion was confirmed by the shake of Corvo's head, the slow, deliberate movement making it clear that his powers had limits. Great. The one time Soap actually wanted Corvo to use that weird power, and the distance was too far for him to use it.

“Over here.” Corvo waved his hand over to the left, walking to that side of the roof and jumping down onto solid ground. Soap hesitated a moment before following; the drop down was higher than it seemed, and he landed with a low grunt. As Soap gathered his bearings, he watched as Corvo approached a pulley that projected about a meter out from the ledge, a chain dangling from it. The chain was long, reaching far below the ledge; as Soap strode up to it, he could see that it dangled all the way to the docks below. A lucky find; Soap couldn’t see it providing any use other than the transport of heavy objects from the docks up to the Abbey, and he thanked God that it was there.

“You go down first,” Corvo ordered, taking a step back from the chain to give Soap some room. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Soap responded with a slight nod as he approached the pulley, stopping a few paces away. He checked over his gear, making sure that everything was secure, and drew a deep breath before running and leaping from the ledge, grabbing onto the chain and hanging on tight as it swung, his stomach lurching with its movements. Images of plummeting several stories to his death momentarily crossed Soap’s mind before he pushed them out, breathing in deeply before starting to inch his way down, moving slowly as the chain still swung slightly. Once he was a safe distance down, Soap could feel the chain shudder above him as Corvo joined him and started climbing down. Becoming more comfortable on the chain and with the added pressure of Corvo above him, Soap quickened the pace, climbing down faster as the concrete below became closer and closer. Once the distance was safe enough to jump, Soap let go of the chain, dropping down with a dull thud of his boots and a low grunt before quickly stepping away from the chain, giving Corvo space to jump down after him.

“Corvo? Mr. MacTavish? Is that you?” a gravelly voice called out softly—Samuel, Soap immediately recognized. Soap turned to face the source of the voice just as Corvo leapt down beside him, making out Samuel’s form in the light thrown from the lanterns placed on the concrete landing. Now that the riverboat was closer, Soap could make out the outline of a man, the shape stirring at the sound of Samuel’s voice. Martin. Corvo, once again, had been right.

“Sorry we took so long,” Soap mumbled, approaching Samuel and his boat, the boatman studying him with tired, yet alert eyes. “We had some unexpected trouble. Is Overseer Martin alright?”

“I’m fine,” a low voice rasped from the riverboat. Martin had been huddled on the floor of the boat and now sat upright at the mention of his name; in the light thrown from the lantern, Soap could see Martin blinking sleep from his eyes, his stolen mask missing. “I could hear the alarm. Is it done? Is Campbell dead?”

“Campbell is a corpse and Curnow still breathes,” Corvo confirmed, climbing into the riverboat and taking a seat on one of the benches, taking care not to step on Martin, who remained on the floor. At Samuel’s gesture, Soap took a seat across from Corvo, the boatman climbing in after him.

“And the Black Book?”

“Ours.”

“Thank the stars.” Martin slumped back to the floor, as Samuel started the boat’s engine, silently piloting the Amaranth away from the dock. “Good riddance, Campbell, you old bastard.”

Soap pulled his scarf away from his nose and mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as he drew in a deep lungful of air. The scarf, when wet, had hindered his breathing and clung uncomfortably to his skin, and it felt good to finally be rid of it, each breath coming easier as the cold, rainy river air kissed his cheeks and the tip of his nose. He let out the breath with a low groan, letting his head hang as he felt his energy leave his body, seeping from every muscle; Soap hadn’t allowed himself to feel tired, and now the exhaustion was catching up with him, every part of his body screaming for rest.

“Well, gentlemen, as long as the rain doesn’t pick up more, it’s straight to the Hound Pits now,” Samuel announced, speaking over the rumble of the riverboat’s engine. “You all can rest easy from here on out.”

Soap slowly lifted his head at the words, watching as Corvo—who’d removed his mask sometime while Soap wasn’t looking—took off his coat and draped it over Martin, who mumbled his thanks before curling up on the floor of the boat, trying his best to get some much needed rest. Soap then turned his gaze on the Office of the High Overseer, the massive building becoming more and more distant as the Amaranth sailed away. Soap’s lip curled into a sneer, happy to leave behind the Office, to leave behind the man in red whose cold corpse lay on the floor, his blood staining the rug and stone.

_Good riddance._


	9. Things Best Left in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 01/18/16  
> Major Edit: 06/08/17; 12/06/17; 01/20/18

The rain had finally begun to let up by the time the  _Amaranth_  was within sight of the Hound Pits Pub, moonlight streaming in through the parting clouds and illuminating the city of Dunwall for the first time that night. The riverboat rocked gently as it pulled up to the dock, Samuel carefully piloting it beside the concrete landing before cutting off the engine. No city lights were shining from this side of the Wrenhaven, not from this district—only the moonlight made this place recognizable in the deepness of the late night.

Soap pulled off his hood, relieved to be free of the confines of his hood and scarf. He reached up and ran a hand through his mohawk, matted against his head from the wet weight of his hood, working his fingers through the dark strands. His hair was starting to curl up again, he noticed. Soap decided that he'd love a warm shower right about now, the cold from the departed rain settled deep in his bones. Yes, a warm shower, a good meal, and a good night's sleep in a warm bed. But a bath in the morning and some rations for breakfast were the best Soap could hope for, and all he had to sleep on was a lumpy mattress on a hard wooden floor.

Not that he didn't appreciate it. It was far better than nothing.

The bench creaked lowly as Corvo leaned forward in his seat, grasping Martin's shoulder and gently shaking him. The Overseer, who'd been half-asleep the entire journey, grumbled wordlessly to himself as he was disturbed, waving Corvo's hand away as he hauled himself into an upright position. Soap huffed to himself, a grin tugging at his lips as he watched Martin rub at his eyes. If there was anyone who needed a hot shower, a filling meal, and a good night's rest, it was Martin.

"Knowing the Admiral, he'll still be awake and waiting for you," Samuel stated, the boatman addressing no one in particular as he stood and stepped out of the riverboat. "You should see him immediately."

"I would be like him to wait all night for us," Martin mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion as he continued to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Son of a bitch would've stayed up all week if you two had taken that long."

Corvo scoffed, the sound one of vague amusement, as he stood and exited the riverboat. Martin shakily rose to his feet, and when Corvo offered him a hand, he accepted it and climbed out of the riverboat after him. "I don't doubt it," Corvo responded, his voice low. He draped an arm over the Overseer, his coat still wrapped around Martin's shoulders. "Come,” he murmured in a sort of tenderness Soap had never seen him display. “Let's get you inside. You've been out in the cold for far too long."

Soap stood and stretched as Corvo escorted Martin away from the docks and up the stairs to the courtyard, deciding not to linger on Corvo’s unusual display of sensitivity to instead relish at the crack of every stiff joint. The  _Amaranth_  rocked beneath him as he stepped out of it and onto the concrete, the feeling of solid ground beneath his boots a welcome one. The return trip to the Hound Pits had felt like it had taken ages, each minute crawling by like a year as the  _Amaranth_  sailed across the Wrenhaven. Rolling his head and working out the stiffness in his shoulders, Soap followed Corvo and Martin up to the Hound Pits, leaving Samuel behind with a low "goodnight" and an appreciative nod. Ahead of him, Corvo pushed open the door to the Hound Pits taproom, ushering Martin inside first while simultaneously taking back his coat, stepping in after him and leaving Soap to enter last.

Despite the draft, the inside of the Hound Pits was comfortably warm, the taproom warmed by a stove sitting just over a meter away from the courtyard-facing door. Soap's eyes lidded at the sudden change, the desire to be somewhere soft and warm growing stronger. The only source of light in the taproom was a lantern that burned low, sitting on the bar beside a half-empty glass of whiskey. The hunched-over form of Admiral Havelock, his coat draped lazily over his shoulders, sat at the bar; he looked up when he heard the door open, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Upon seeing Martin, Havelock sprang to his feet, dropping the cigarette into an empty glass serving as a makeshift ashtray and striding up to the exhausted Overseer.

"Teague."

"It's good to see you, you old grouch," Martin greeted in a weak attempt to be of high spirits, allowing Havelock to gather him up in a brief, tight embrace. The Overseer sniffed dramatically, adding, "By the Void, man, you reek! You must've smoked ten cases while I was gone."

The Admiral let out a low, amused sound that might've been a laugh. "And it's good to have you back in one piece," he mumbled, stepping back and placing a firm hand on Martin's shoulder. A slight smile tugged at Havelock's lips, his pale eyes warm and crinkled at the edges. "Go upstairs, take my quarters. I'm not letting you walk all the way back to the apartment tonight."

Martin frowned. "But then where—"

"Don't worry about that, just go get some rest. I have a change of clothes set out for you. I'll have Lydia draw you a bath in the morning."

"Shouldn't have to wait 'till morning to get a damn bath," Martin grumbled, voice bitter, but when he turned Soap could see a smile curling Martin's lips. The Overseer shuffled off, heading upstairs to get some well-deserved rest.

"Martin is alive and returned to us," Havelock murmured once the man in question was out of sight. "Good." He then turned to face Soap and Corvo, the smile falling from his lips as he clasped his hands behind his back. "How went the mission?"

"Campbell is dead and the journal is ours," Corvo replied, procuring the Black Book from the pockets of his coat and handing it to the Admiral. "And I'm certain that Miss Curnow would be happy to hear that Captain Curnow narrowly escaped death this evening."

"Excellent. This is a massive first step in dismantling the Lord Regent's regime and discovering his secrets and those of his allies." Havelock took the journal from Corvo, turning the small black book over in his large hands. "Corvo, you have done the Loyalists a great favor—you have done Dunwall a great favor. We all thank you."

Corvo simply nodded in acknowledgement and the Admiral turned his attention to Soap, his critical green-grey gaze boring into him. "And you. You brought Martin out of the hands of the enemy and into safety. The Loyalist Conspiracy thanks you and I personally thank you. You've proven to be an asset to our cause."

Soap silently nodded his own thanks, unsure of what to say and choosing to neglect the fact that Martin had escorted himself to safety and it was Soap's bullet that ended the High Overseer's life. He wasn't sure how Havelock would react if he found out. "I guess it's a good thing you didn't shoot me then, eh?" he muttered after a moment, and an amused glint entered the Admiral's eye.

"Indeed," Havelock responded. "You two should go up and get some rest. It's been a long night."

"Yes, it has," Corvo mumbled, draping his coat over his shoulders and walking off without a word. Soap dipped his head in a "goodnight" gesture, turning and following Corvo out of the taproom as Havelock mirrored the farewell. Behind him, Soap could hear the Admiral settle back into his barstool, the sound of rustling fabric followed by the lighting of another cigarette.

 

* * *

 

The runes had stopped humming.

They'd stopped humming as soon as he'd touched them, and hadn't started since. Corvo turned one of the two runes he'd collected that evening over in his hands, tracing his fingers along the Mark of the Outsider painted on its face. Moonlight streaming in through the attic windows illuminated the rune, its pale surface giving off an almost otherworldly glow in the silvery light. Yes, they'd stopped humming immediately. Corvo preferred to bind to them, to draw in their Void-given energy, right away so he could collect them in peace. Openly wearing his Mark on his hand was one thing, but carrying around singing runes would be pushing it. Corvo didn't want his hosts to hear the runesong...especially not Martin. Not that there was anything the Overseer could really do to him.

For now, at least.

The runes made Corvo's connection to the Void stronger, his Mark tingling and sending a deep pulse through his blood each time he bound one to himself. Corvo's abilities became stronger and stronger the more he let the Void into his being, the ancient energy darkening the Mark on his left hand—once a pale outline, now a stark black tattoo on his flesh. The Abbey would call it dark magic, but there was nothing inherently "dark" or malevolent about it. The energy simply  _was_ , the currents of the deep ocean tugging at his soul and the mournful songs of whales echoing in his ears each time he welcomed it into him. No, there was nothing dark or malevolent at all.

But the nature of the energy itself had no bearing on how it could be applied.

Corvo was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of soft snoring coming from below him. MacTavish had stripped most of his clothing as soon as they were in privacy—piling everything next to his mattress—and collapsed onto his mattress on the floor with little ceremony the first chance he got, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Corvo, personally, didn't blame him; this was his first night far beyond the walls of the Hound Pits, and it had been spent traversing the city, putting up with Corvo’s antics and taking down the High Overseer. Corvo admired how quickly Soap had acted and how sharp he was in combat, dispatching the High Overseer with one shot and helping Corvo make short work of the remaining guards, not a single bullet going to waste. MacTavish was indeed useful to have around; Corvo was grateful that he was able to convince the Admiral to stay his hand when he'd first arrived.

He was not only useful, but interesting. A curiosity. Piero had said that MacTavish had come from a far-off land not even in this plane of existence, and based on the evidence presented to him, Corvo had little choice but to accept this as fact. His dress, his speech, his behaviors...everything about MacTavish screamed that he was a foreigner from beyond the Isles, beyond the explored parts of Pandyssia, beyond the known world. Much to Corvo's frustration, unfortunately, MacTavish didn't seem to be much a talker; Corvo had to push in order to learn anything personal about him, and the last time he'd tried to explain anything about his own world, both men wound up becoming confused. Their conversations often fell short. MacTavish was a man of action, not a man of words, it seemed—a trait that Corvo shared but found irritating for once rather than relieving.

_He's an interesting fellow to be sure. Will he catch the Outsider's attention?_

If the old god was planning to bring MacTavish in his realm, he hadn't done so yet. Corvo could feel the influence of the Outsider wherever it could be found, and if the veil was weakened enough he could see the aura of the Void shimmering just beyond the living realm, and yet while MacTavish did have a strange aura about him, he didn't carry the energy of the Void. Residual energy from the world he belonged to, perhaps. It was the energy that Corvo felt when MacTavish first arrived at the Hound Pits, the energy that made Corvo recognize him as one of the men from his dreams, the energy that made Corvo tell Havelock to stay his hand.

Briefly, Corvo’s mind drifted to the dreams that preceded MacTavish’s arrival. It was clear the purpose of those dreams; they were telling Corvo that he was coming, though the source of the message was unclear. Whether it was the Outsider sending those dreams or some other force beyond Corvo’s knowledge, he would never know. MacTavish’s face stopped appearing in his dreams once he’d arrived, but the face of the second man, the man with odd-eyes in black clothing, remained all the same. Now Corvo understood that this man was coming too; who he was, however, or when he would arrive, Corvo couldn’t say.

Perhaps he was from the same world as MacTavish?

Pushing the dreams from his mind, Corvo turned his attention back onto his newfound companion. _What secrets do you hold?_  He was itching for a good glance inside MacTavish's mind. He wanted to know more about him. About his world. About his people, his homeland, his life. Was Soap's "Scotland" anything like Morley? Was the— _oh, what had he called it_ —SAS he'd served in anything like the Imperial Armies? Where did he go? Who did he know? What did he do? See? Feel?

In his home realm, who was John MacTavish?

A glance. A glance inside MacTavish's mind was all he wanted. Corvo raised his left hand slightly before lowering it again, clasping it tightly over the rune held in his right hand.  _No, I can't do it._  The Heart couldn't be summoned, not now. Corvo had never summoned the Heart so close to anyone before, and he was still unsure as to whether other people could see her. If MacTavish somehow woke up and saw her pointed at him, what would he do? How would one react to seeing a disembodied heart pointed at their face?

 _Until he learns to open up, this is the only way you'll really learn about him_.

Corvo frowned.

 _I cannot do it._  

The Heart told secrets that Corvo wasn't meant to hear, that Corvo wasn't sure he wanted to hear. The conflicting guilt and desire for control in Martin's soul, the bitter hatred and longing for companionship in Pendleton's. The blood and violence and repressed memories of a younger brother in Havelock's. No. He couldn't pry into MacTavish's mind. Some things, Corvo had learned, were just never meant to become known. Some things were just best left in the dark.

_Others can afford to be brought into the light. Summon her._

Giving in to temptation, Corvo drew a deep breath and let it back out in a slow, steady exhale as he raised his left hand again, a dark mist crawling up his arm. The Heart materialized in his palm, his fingers curling around her as she beat softly as if in greeting. She was warm against his skin, and when he pointed her at MacTavish, she gave off a soft glow, the golden light falling upon MacTavish's sleeping face. He looked younger, Corvo noticed, when he slept.

_Tell me about him. What do you see?_

The Heart was silent as she began to pry into MacTavish's mind, looking for secrets to share. After a moment, she answered.

_"He sleeps soundly now, but his dreams are not peaceful. He wakes up in the dead of night thinking that death has taken him. He feels as though he cannot breathe."_

Corvo frowned at the words that echoed in his ears, the Heart's statement only serving to pique his curiosity rather than satisfy it. Corvo knew that feeling well, but not exactly what caused them in his companion. What haunted MacTavish's dreams? Was it the war that raged in his home realm, the war that MacTavish had tried—and failed—to explain, or was it something else? Corvo wondered what exactly MacTavish saw behind his closed eyes. The Heart answered without waiting for a direct request.

_"He dreams of blood, of fire and of bitter betrayal. Loss, cutting deep. His fault. Most recently, he dreams of falling. A place. Prague."_

_Falling. Prague._  Corvo had heard that name before. It was the city MacTavish last remembered before coming to Dunwall. He'd mentioned falling from a tower there, sustaining severe injuries and falling unconscious elsewhere in the city. Perhaps that was what he dreamed of? Or maybe "falling" referred to his fall from one world to another, through space and time? Maybe it was both? Corvo found himself leaning forward, his hair falling in front of his face as he peered down at MacTavish, whose face had begun to twitch into a frown.

_What else?_

_"He knows betrayal well. Companions killed, name tarnished. Crimes he did not commit. He was bitter, but fought anyway. Not for himself, but for them. Family. Friends. People long gone. People who'll never know his name."_

_People who'll never know his name?_  Corvo supposed that made sense; whereas everyone in the Empire knew Corvo Attano, the former Lord Protector and "killer of the Empress," very few people in MacTavish's world would know John MacTavish, the soldier. He led an existence outside of the public eye, from what Corvo gathered. It was...noble, to fight for people who would never even know his name, never know his personal sacrifice. MacTavish was a selfless man, that much Corvo was able to understand.

Though what was he fighting against?

The Heart answered.  _"The enemy's voice fills his dreams, haunts his memories. He's at every turn in his life. John is never safe. He never has been."_

So, the enemy MacTavish fought against was a person. A person who, like the Lord Regent, had a great deal of influence in the world. Someone whose shadow was cast across every aspect of MacTavish's life. A bitter enemy. Was this enemy the reason for MacTavish's presence in Prague? Was it the enemy who made him fall?

The dreams of MacTavish and the black-clad stranger crept back into Corvo’s mind. _Is it possible that MacTavish could know him? Could he be—_

Corvo's heart jumped into his throat as MacTavish stirred, scowling and rolling over to face Corvo's bed. Dismissing the Heart, Corvo quickly laid himself down and stared at the ceiling as he listened for any sign of MacTavish waking up. There was a slight hitch in his breathing, a cough, and after a few moments, the soft snoring resumed, blankets rustling as MacTavish settled in his new position.

 _Outsider's eyes._  Corvo's eyes slid shut as he drew a deep breath, the anxious knot in his chest slowly unraveling. He'd become far too engaged in the Heart's observations; he wasn’t sure if she was visible to anyone who didn’t carry the Mark, but he didn’t want to run the risk of having MacTavish wake up and seeing a disembodied heart pointed directly at his face. Corvo winced as he imagined the reaction MacTavish would have. Perhaps it was best if he didn't pry any deeper.

Curiosity still gnawed at the edge of Corvo's mind, and part of him still ached to learn more about his new companion. The Heart was vague, whether out of intention or for some other reason, and rather than sate Corvo's curiosity, she had a habit of heightening it. And yet, Corvo didn't want to pry any further; the Heart, when pushed enough, always looked deeper and deeper with each question asked, until eventually she imparted secrets that Corvo had no right to hear, that he didn't  _want_  to hear. No, despite his curiosity, Corvo wouldn't summon her again. At least, not tonight.

The second stranger from Corvo’s dream entered his mind again.

 

* * *

 

It was high noon by the time Soap woke up, only bothering to put on his trousers, boots, and shirt borrowed from Havelock before wandering downstairs to the taproom, looking for Corvo. He'd slept like the dead, only waking twice during the night when his dreams took unpleasant turns. The second time he'd woken up had been no different than the many other times he'd woken up in the dead of night; images of Prague, of blood and fire, of whispered threats in his ear and of Makarov's voice. The first time, however, had been different; Soap had woken up because it felt like something had entered his dreams. An intruder, combing through his mind.

"Look who's awake." Soap was distracted from his thoughts as Corvo addressed him. Corvo was sitting at the bar, gesturing for Soap to take a seat beside him; he too was dressed minimally, his torso stripped down to his shirtsleeves and the legs of his trousers hastily tucked into his boots. His hair was damp, as though he'd taken a bath while Soap was still asleep. 'You slept well, I presume?"

"Like a rock," Soap confirmed, hiding a yawn behind one hand as he took a seat in a barstool to Corvo's left. He rested his elbows on the bar counter, propping up his chin with one hand. "I only woke up twice last night."

"Is that so? Any particular reason?"

Soap waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing new," he replied, choosing not to share the feeling of intrusion that had woken him up that night. It was a feeling Soap preferred to forget. "Bad dreams, you know the deal. Is there any food?"

"Breakfast has already been served some time ago, but I could find Wallace and have him fetch you what's left," Corvo said, starting to slide off the barstool, ready to find the manservant in question. Soap shook his head, gesturing for Corvo to remain seated. With a curious tilt of his head, Corvo did so, settling back into the barstool.

"It's fine, I can get something for myself later." Soap rubbed at his eyes, still trying to banish the sleep still in them as he thought of something to say. Since he woke up, all he could think of was the mission from the previous night, of the Office of the High Overseer and the journey through the streets and across the rooftops. His mind drifted to Corvo's tattoo, the black mark erupting into a blue and orange glow that cut through the darkness of the night, mist seeping from his dark skin—

"You have questions about what you saw last night." It was a statement, not a question. Soap glanced over at Corvo, who simply looked at him expectantly, expression carefully neutral. Soap frowned, unsure if he liked not being able to read Corvo's dark brown eyes. Those eyes were deep, easy to get lost in.

"I do," Soap confirmed after a moment. Corvo's freaky tattoo teleportation trick was only briefly explained while he and Soap were out, and it wasn't the only thing that Soap had questions about.

"Then ask. We're alone in this room, for now. I'll answer honestly."

Soap raised a brow. "You don't trust the others?" he asked, surprised. Corvo made no effort to conceal the tattoo on his left hand; Soap had assumed that, if Corvo wanted to be secretive about it, he'd have hidden it to begin with. Didn't the others ask questions?

"Not with this," Corvo responded with a shake of his head. "Whether or not they see it makes no difference to me. Everyone has seen it and commented on it, but no one has asked about where I've gotten it." A slight smile tugged at the edge of Corvo's lips, a light twinkle entering his eye. "I suspect that they don't want to know."

"I wouldn't, either," Soap mumbled, looking down at Corvo's left hand, which was resting palm-down on the bar counter. Even if the others didn't know it was a gift from the Outsider, it would most definitely look like some sort of cult symbol to anyone who didn't know better. And with the Abbey, and the implications that this tattoo carried...it seemed like a good idea for anyone who wasn't involved to stay ignorant to the tattoo's true origins, and refrain from prying.

"I'm only going to answer your questions because you've seen what I can do," Corvo continued, raising his left hand slightly off the counter so that Soap could get a better view of his tattoo. "You've experienced it firsthand. Considering the circumstances, I feel you deserve a proper explanation."

 _Aye._  The brief explanation that Corvo had given him, high on the rooftops above the streets of Dunwall, hadn't been enough for Soap; between Prague, winding up in Dunwall because of some hiccup in the space-time continuum, and now Corvo's freaky magic powers, Soap was tired of having fucked up things happen to and around him. A proper explanation was in order, that much he could agree on. And, if he was being honest with himself, Soap was curious about Corvo's tattoo. It was as interesting as it was weird.

"You said that the Outsider gave it to you or something," Soap began, Corvo's small grin twitching just a bit wider. "The Mark, I mean. Can you remind me who the Outsider is?"

Corvo paused, a thoughtful look entering his eye. "The Outsider is like an old god, if you want to put it that way," he explained, recalling what he'd said a few nights prior. "An ambiguous figure, neither good nor evil. Just an observer."

"Didn't you say the Abbey believes that he's some kind of evil spirit?" Soap asked, memories from his first night with Corvo slowly trickling back. Most of the information he’d received about the Outsider hadn’t been committed to memory—he hadn't considered it important enough to remember at the time—but a good portion of it stuck. He remembered that the Abbey didn't preach about a benevolent figure like the Christian God that Soap grew up with, and that the only thing that stood between the common people and the Void was the Abbey and their own will to remain holy. It was a bleak outlook on life to be sure, to think that the only deity in existence was actively trying to damn all of humanity.

"Yes, and those who worship the Outsider are declared heretics," Corvo confirmed, his slow nod punctuating his statement. "The penalty for heresy is death; in the past, heretics were burned, and even with the advent of modern technology the Overseers prefer to cling to the old ways."

"Christ in Heaven, Outsider worshippers are  _burned_?"

Corvo shrugged. "Not always," he replied, his nonchalance sending a chill down Soap's spine. "Some are beheaded. Others are hanged. Most simply go missing, their bodies never found and their names forgotten. It's barbaric and the Empress tried to put a stop to it, which put her in a bad light with High Overseer Campbell and the more...radical side of the Abbey." Corvo's eyes darkened and he cast his eyes downward. "When she died," he continued, his voice low, "the Lord Regent gave the High Overseer a free pass to allow the Overseers to do whatever they wished. Since the onset and worsening of the plague, from what we hear, the Overseers have become much more...vigilant."

"Christ."

"The Abbey as of late has used the plague as an excuse to come down harder on even the mere suspicion of heresy, claiming that this suffering is the Outsider's doing as some sort of punishment for wickedness," Corvo explained. "Martin told me of people being dragged away for lesser and lesser offenses."

"A rumor alone could have the Overseers kicking down someone's door," Soap mumbled, trying to imagine what it would be like to constantly live in fear of the Abbey. He tried to imagine a common family, barely surviving in a time of plague and political turmoil, living in fear of being stolen away by the Overseers based on suspicion and rumors spread by bitter, desperate neighbors. The men with their dark uniforms and their grotesque grimacing masks—

"If that's the case," Soap put in, "isn't it dangerous to be flaunting your tattoo the way you do?"

Corvo outright laughed at that, the sound low and void of amusement. "What can Martin do? Drag me off and toss me in a ditch somewhere to burn? I'm the conspiracy's blade and the former Lord Protector; if they allow anything to happen to me, they'll lose their way to strike back at the Lord Regent, which will cost them any chance at victory—and they'll lose their connection to Emily." Corvo looked up at Soap, his lips twisted into a cold grin that didn't reach his eyes. "No. Unless I prove to be a danger to them, the Loyalists will only suffer if I were to be denounced as a heretic."

Soap held Corvo's gaze for a few moments, his dark brown eyes filled with thoughts and emotions that were impossible to decipher. Clearing his throat, Soap shifted the conversation away from the Abbey; "So, your tattoo. Why did the Outsider give it to you, of all people?"

Corvo's expression softened, once more thoughtful. "I don't know," he confessed, "and I'm not sure if I really want to know. Perhaps it's because of the circumstances; my connection to the Empress, my downfall, my part in the conspiracy. It seems he approaches people he finds 'interesting,' in one way or another." Corvo leaned towards Soap, peering at him with one brow raised and his lip curling up in an expression of intrigue. "Though in my opinion, I'd say the most interesting person between the two of us is you—why he hasn't visited you is a curiosity to me."

Soap huffed, the corners of his mouth turning up in a grin. "Who's to say he hasn't visited me already? Maybe he put the tattoo someplace you can't see."

Corvo chuckled, this sound kinder than before, and shook his head. "You’d be a very good actor in that case,” he replied, “ And besides, even if you hid that from me, I would be able to feel his presence on you," he replied, Soap pursing his lips at the statement. "Even if he didn't gift you with the Mark, I would be able to sense the Void's aura about you had he approached you—it would probably be strong enough for me to see."

"You can see the presence of the Void?"

"Sometimes. Ever since I received the Mark I could feel where the veil was weak and the influence of the Void seeped through."  Corvo paused. "I can hear it sometimes, and if it's strong enough, like at a shrine or near any powerful charms or runes, I can see it as well."

"That's freaky." Soap stared at Corvo, remembering Corvo mention being able to "hear" runes the previous night. "So those runes or whatever that you collected at Granny Rags' place, you could hear them?"

"Yes, and when I got closer, I could see the aura." Corvo tilted his head. "You heard it, right? The humming?"

"Aye, and the heartbeat."

There was a moment where Corvo stared at Soap, his brows furrowing. "...A heartbeat?"

Soap nodded, and alarm flickered over Corvo's face briefly before his expression was carefully composed once more. "Yes, a heartbeat," Corvo muttered. "Either way, you were able to hear it, right? That's the influence of the Void, a certain type of energy that even those without the Mark can sense."

Soap hesitated, watching Corvo and his cool expression carefully for a few moments. Corvo's reaction to the mention of the heartbeat was...not something Soap had expected, and he had the feeling Corvo was leaving out some information. Soap wanted a proper explanation, and briefly considered pushing the subject of the heartbeat before dropping it; if it was really something Corvo wasn't willing to mention, it would probably be better if he didn't push it.

"Anyway, the runes looked kind of dark, too, I think," Soap mentioned, reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck. "They had this sort of dark aura that was there but also wasn't."

"Those runes were unusually powerful; most of them don't give off a visible aura like that," Corvo said. "Most of the runes I've seen were older; the ones last night seemed newer. Fresh."

"Why do you need them, anyway?" Soap pressed. "Do they give you your powers?"

"No, they just help me unlock the potential of the Mark."

“Then why was Granny collecting them? Isn’t she a cultist or something?”

Corvo paused. “If I were you, I’d think the same,” he responded. “But no. I could see the presence of the Void around her. That woman was Marked.”

“…You’re shitting me. Just her _aura_ tells you that?!”

“Yes. And if you’re shocked that I would steal runes from another of the Outsider’s Marked—don’t be.” Corvo shrugged. “I had no way of knowing that she was Marked until I saw her up close; I only felt the presence of the shrine in her house, and assumed she was a cultist who collected runes out of superstition.”

Soap frowned. “And you didn’t turn around when you realized you were wrong, because…?”

Corvo shrugged. “I decided the risk was worth it. She wasn’t _using_ it anyway; the rune hadn’t been activated, so it’s likely her power wasn’t as strong as I’d initially thought.” He paused. “Perhaps I read her aura wrong.”

“Activated? You can activate those things?”

“Yes; runes can be bound to a Marked individual, and imbue them with Void energy capable of increasing their power.”

"So the rune gives you powers, then?" When Corvo shook his head, Soap tried, “Then it’s the tattoo?”

Corvo shook his head. "No," he replied. "This ‘tattoo’… It's a Mark, more of a brand than anything else, which allows me to use the energy of the Void. Through the mark I can channel the Outsider's energy into my own body and expend it in any way my abilities allow. The powers themselves are mine, a part of me that cannot be given or taken away, only learned or forgotten. The Mark just allows me to use them, acting as a channel between our realm and the Void. A bridge between worlds, if you will."

"So you're saying the Outsider gave you the tool to use the powers, and not the powers themselves."

Corvo smiled, dipping his head in a short, affirmative nod. "Precisely," he said, pleased with Soap's observation. "We all have power locked away within us, waiting to be freed." Corvo brought his left hand forward, closer to Soap. "This Mark is just the key that allows me to unlock mine."

Soap stared down at the Mark, intrigued. If he hadn't seen the Mark in action, he wouldn't have believed a single thing Corvo had said. In fact, Soap was still struggling to comprehend it; there was a world of power locked away within each and every person, and a Mark left behind by an old god was the key to unleashing it.

"What other powers did the Outsider help you find?"

Corvo frowned; Soap assumed he was trying to find a way to express his powers in words. "The ability to see where human eyes cannot. Through walls and shadows, into food and drink. I can only call upon this power briefly, for it hurts my eyes to do so, but it comes with the ability to  _feel_. I can sense the presence of others far beyond the range of those without the Mark; I can tell you right now that Lord Pendleton is in his quarters upstairs, possibly drinking, possibly writing his memoirs." Corvo paused, crinkling his nose, then added, "Most likely both."

"That explains your bad habit of running headfirst into everything without looking where you're going," Soap remarked gruffly, Corvo snickering at the way he frowned.

"Yes, I recall feeling that you were very angry with me."

"'Baffled' and 'irritated' is more like it," Soap huffed, his frown shifting into a scowl when Corvo's amusement only seemed to grow. "Anything else?"

"Only powers that I'm still discovering," Corvo responded with a shrug. "To be quite honest, I don't know all that's been locked away with me. Time, practice, and channeling of the Void's energy seem to help me discover my own abilities."

Soap raised a brow. "So it's not all clear to you already?" When Corvo shook his head, Soap scoffed adding, "What's the point of having a key if it doesn't unlock everything right away?"

Corvo gazed evenly at Soap, deep brown eyes impossible to navigate. “Caution should always be taken in matters of the Void,” he murmured. “He who looks too eagerly within himself using the blessing of the Outsider may uncover something best left in the dark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Poor Soap forgot all about the runes.~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I spent all day writing because I already had this planned out in my head, and I don't know what it means to take things in moderation. Chapter 10 is in the works!~~
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: After a whole year, Soap finally remembered the runes.
> 
> ADDITIONAL EDIT: After half a year, Corvo finally remembers the other person he dreamed about.
> 
> ADDITIONAL EDIT EX: In 2018, Soap and Corvo finally remember Granny Rags


	10. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 01/28/16  
> Major Edit: 06/08/17  
> 

Makarov's lungs were on fire as he hauled himself from the wreckage of the downed helicopter, coughing violently as smoke filled his lungs, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue. The glass of the skylight, cracked from the impact, groaned under the weight of the helicopter; weakened, the glass threatened to shatter and send Makarov plummeting nearly thirty stories to his death.

 _No_. Makarov would not die tonight. He'd narrowly escaped death far too many times this evening alone to have his life taken by glass that refused to support his weight, refused to support the weight of the downed helicopter that had been so close to being his escape—

Price had come for him. In the dead of night, with only Yuri— _the traitor, Yuri_ —to aid him in his endeavor, Price had come, intending to kill Makarov at the Hotel Oasis, the last place that the international terrorist and leader of the radical wing of the Ultranationalist Party could hide. Makarov should've known that Price would find him here, should've been more prepared—and yet, after watching everything that he'd built up around him crumble at Price's hands, after being forced to flee his home country once the freed Russian President Vorshevsky put a price on his head, where else did Makarov have to run? Who else did he have to rely on other than himself?

Makarov staggered to his feet, drawing in a rasping breath and sent sharp pains like knives through his lungs. He coughed, throat burning—the smoke was smothering him, he had to leave, _leave_ —

Makarov stumbled away from the flaming wreckage, clasping a hand over his chest as another jolt of white-hot pain shot through his lungs, spreading through his entire body. His vision blurred, then swam into focus, his eyes finding and locking onto a moving form—a body that momentarily froze when it realized it was in his presence. No, not  _it._   _Him._ The form was lying upon the glass, his arms supporting his weight as he lifted his torso, met Makarov's gaze—

Another jolt passed through Makarov's body, borne not of pain, but of rage. Hatred.  _Him._

Price began to crawl towards Makarov, a groan escaping his lips as he forced his body into cooperation, dragging himself across the cracked skylight. No, he wasn't moving towards Makarov, but towards a gun, lying atop the glass. It was Makarov's—how it got there, he didn't know.

Makarov was moving before he realized it, staggering across the skylight as quickly as his uncooperative legs could take him, fueled by a cold sense of hatred. Price had taken everything from him. Price had tracked him down, followed his every movement. Price had killed Waraabe. Given the Americans Volk. Brought down the diamond mine, freed the President and his daughter when Makarov had been so close,  _so close_ , to getting the launch codes and finally turning the United States and Europe into a smoldering crater like Zakhaev should've done five years ago—

Price and his allies had taken Zakhaev. _Even Zakhaev._

Makarov was brought to his knees by a coughing fit, blood tinting red the saliva that flew from his lips. With a shaky gasp for air, Makarov hauled himself back to his feet, stumbling forward. Price would not get to the gun first. He would not. Makarov wouldn't let him.

 _Kill him. Kill him._  The words echoed in Makarov's mind as blood thundered in his ears. Price reached for the Desert Eagle. So close, he was so close.  _Kill him._  With a snarl, Makarov slammed his foot down on Price's hand as hard as he could, too consumed by fury to relish his cry of pain.  _Kill him._ Makarov reached down. Picked up the gun, heavy in his hand. Pointed it at Price.

_Kill him._

Price glared up at him, his blue eyes reflecting the hatred that Makarov could feel with every fiber of his being. Makarov felt his lip curl back in a vicious sneer as he forced his trembling hand to still itself. His finger hovered over the trigger. He heard a voice speak, rasping and filled with bitter hatred, and realized it was his own.

" _Goodbye, Captain Price._ "

A shot rang out in the night, and Makarov screamed as a bullet tore through his shoulder, sending him to his knees. Another bullet sang just past Makarov's head, grazing the tip of his nose. A third barely missed his upper back. Snarling wordlessly, Makarov twisted around to see a staggering form approach him and Price, wildly firing shots from a pistol in hopes of hitting Makarov. Yuri.  _The traitor._

Makarov aimed the Desert Eagle at Yuri without thinking and pulled the trigger. The bullet went through Yuri's right shoulder. The traitor stumbled back, grimacing, but didn't fall. The second bullet went through his left shoulder. He staggered. Still, he didn't fall. Makarov brought himself to his feet, his eyes locked on Yuri's.

He pulled the trigger.

This time, Yuri's head snapped back as the bullet passed through his forehead, and he fell back, crumpling lifelessly to the glass. A bitter sort of satisfaction filled Makarov at watching the traitor finally die like he should've at Zakhaev International. Makarov breathed in as deeply as his burning lungs would allow. Yuri was dead. Finally, Yuri was dead. And now, it was time for Price to die.

There was a cry. A flash of movement, boots scraping against glass. Makarov turned in time to see a fist flying for his face, connecting with his jaw as Price tackled him to the ground. Makarov hit the glass hard, gasping as the air was pushed from his lungs, the cracking of glass filling his ears. Another blow caught him in the cheek. A third in the eye. Makarov was stunned, blinded by pain as he gasped for air—

Something cold and rough was wrapped tightly around his throat, cutting off his breathing. Cable. The cable was joined by Price's hands, wrapping around his throat and strangling him. Price slammed him repeatedly against the cracked skylight, the sounds of cracking glass getting louder and louder. Makarov kicked and struggled as he let out choked, hoarse cries, clawing at Price's fingers with gloved hands, trying to find purchase, to free himself. His vision was a blur of bright orange fire and black night sky and of Price's face, his expression contorted into a bloody rictus of hate as he strangled the life from Makarov.

Price's hands left Makarov's throat. Grasped his shoulders. He hauled Makarov almost upright and in a startling moment of clarity their gazes met, Price's blue eyes gleaming in the light of the fire. Makarov's eyes widened, his hands flying up to grasp Price's wrists. Price's lip curled back into a snarl, leaning forward and speaking into Makarov's face close enough for their noses to touch, voice hoarse with physical pain and an emotion too raw for Makarov to recognize.

_"This is for Soap."_

With all his might, Price slammed Makarov back against the glass. It shattered, and they fell.

 

* * *

 

Three days had passed since the assassination of High Overseer Campbell and the freeing of Overseer Martin, who was thankfully recovering quickly from whatever he'd endured during his brief capture. With the Black Book now in their possession, the Loyalists quickly went to work at deciphering its contents, working tirelessly through the day and late into the night, barely leaving Havelock's quarters. They hoped to uncover information about the Lord Regent's plans, along with the location of the young Lady Emily; although the journal was written in code, the code was quickly broken with Martin's expertise, and the Loyalists were able to concentrate all their efforts on translation alone.

While the Loyalists worked, Soap and Corvo waited. Soap had a sneaking suspicion that he would be sent to help Corvo recover Emily once her location was discovered; the young child—only ten years old, according to Corvo—was crucial to the Loyalist's plan to overthrow the Lord Regent and restore the throne. She was the only direct heir to the throne, and without her, the conspiracy would have no legitimacy, would get nowhere. The child was also important to Corvo personally; he'd protected her all her life, from the moment she was born. One evening, late into the night, Corvo had admitted that he wasn't able to rest easy since her kidnapping, and he wouldn't be able to until Emily was near and safe.

While the Loyalists deciphered the Black Book, Soap decided it was time to finally crack open his own journal. He owned a small dark brown leather-bound, its pages yellowed with age and stained with years of wear and tear—and blood from all the times Soap was injured on the field. He didn't have time to write much, nor did he tend to write a lot to begin with—perhaps this was why it lasted him over five years—but the little book was important to him nonetheless. It contained memories, good and bad, from his first meeting with Price to the bitter betrayal at the hands of General Shepherd. In its pages were drawings, images of friends and memories sketched in black ink, of fighting men, of Price and his old ridiculous moustache. There was one particular doodle that made Soap snicker when he thought about it; a knife stuck in a watermelon, inspired by his old friend once making a remark about Soap's “fruit killing skills.”

Soap hadn't opened his journal since his arrival to the Hound Pits, too consumed in observing the world around him to think about writing, and part of him feared what his journal would look like after what had happened at Prague. The last two times he'd nearly died, the journal narrowly escaped being completely ruined by the blood; Soap wasn't sure if his journal was able to take another near-death experience, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing which of his drawings was destroyed this time around.

Not that it mattered in the end, for when he finally decided to look for his journal, it was gone.

"Oh, bollocks!" Soap cried out, sitting on his mattress in the attic, blanket folder neatly on the floor beside him. Corvo looked up from a tin of whale meat, one brow raised, as Soap fervently searched the pockets of his coat one more time, trying to make sure his worst nightmare wasn't happening.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"You say that like you haven't uttered a single swear in your God damn life," Soap retorted through gritted teeth. Corvo simply chuckled and slid down from his spot on the bed, sitting cross-legged before Soap.

"What distresses you?" Corvo asked. Soap, giving up on his search, dropped his coat on his lap with a heavy sigh.

"My journal," Soap grumbled. "It's missing. I must've lost it in Prague.”

Corvo blinked. "You keep a journal?"

"Mhm," Soap admitted, glancing forlornly down at his coat. "Between fighting and training and all the shite the world throws at me, it keeps me sane."

"Interesting. I'd have never taken you for a writer."

Soap scoffed. "The stupid thing's been with me for five years. Damn, I can't believe it's gone—"

"It's important to you.”

"More than I can describe.” Soap tried to imagine how he'd lost the damn thing. Perhaps it had fallen out of his pocket after his fall from the church tower; this seemed the most likely scenario. Maybe it had fallen when Price and Yuri dragged him halfway across the city, scrambling for the safehouse while fleeing Makarov's forces. He'd have noticed if it had fallen out of his pocket while he was in Dunwall. Not that it mattered. Either way, it was gone, lost in the chaos, and Soap doubted that he would ever see it again.

Corvo paused a moment; when Soap glanced up, he saw that Corvo looked thoughtful, as if considering his response. "Perhaps," he said after a while, "you would like a new one?"

Soap huffed. "Right, as if I can waltz into the nearest market and buy one. What's the point—it's gone and I probably won't see it ever again, so there's no point in dwelling or wishing." The words felt forced, bitter on his tongue; he wanted that journal back and he knew that it would haunt him for a while yet, and judging by the look on his face, Corvo knew it, too. With a defeated sigh, Soap picked up his coat and stood, sliding into the garment. "I'm going out for a smoke," he stated in an attempt to change the subject. Corvo watched from the mattress on the floor, head tilted curiously to one side. "Wanna come?"

Corvo shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. "You go ahead," he replied, much to Soap's surprise; he rarely ever turned down a good smoke. "I'll go see if the others have made any more progress with the Black Book."

 

* * *

 

Corvo was still absent from the attic when Soap returned from the roof. He shrugged out of his coat, dropping it without ceremony on his mattress. Assuming Corvo was still talking to the others, Soap exited the attic and made his way downstairs, deciding to sniff out something to eat before he figured out how he wanted to pass the time. Maybe he'd visit Piero for a little while; he wondered just what the bespectacled engineer was up to. It would distract him from the distress of losing his journal, anyway. At least for a while.

Soap entered the taproom just in time to bump into one of the servants, who jumped and gasped at the sudden contact; it was the flighty redheaded girl, Cecelia, her doe-brown eyes widening as she looked up at Soap. He was much taller than she was, the servant only coming up to his shoulders, and this was the closest the two of them had ever been to each other.

"'Scuse me," Soap mumbled, dipping his head at the young servant. Cecelia quickly averted her gaze, casting her eyes downward.

"Pardon me," she replied softly. "I was just going upstairs to make sure your quarters were clean—"

Soap raised a brow. "I was just up there," he stated, gesturing towards the stairs. "It's just a little dusty, there's no need to—"

"Master Corvo asked me to make sure everything is clean, sir," Cecelia said hurriedly, rushing off before Soap could say another word. Frowning, Soap watched her go before turning and facing the taproom once again. He spied Corvo standing by the bar, arms crossed and looking very pleased with himself. The look vanished as soon as he and Soap locked eyes, but the glint in his eye never left.

Soap jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction that Cecelia had gone. "What was that about?" he asked, his confused frown deepening when Corvo simply turned away. "Our quarters are fine—"

"Are you hungry, Soap?" Corvo interrupted, striding behind the bar and opening one of the cabinets. Soap crossed his arms, watching as Corvo sifted through the contents of the cabinet. "I can have Wallace fry some of this whale meat for you if you want something hot."

"I'll pass on the whale meat, thanks."

"Brined hagfish?"

"Corvo, what was that about?"

A grin flashed across Corvo's lips before he schooled his features into careful neutrality once again. "Brined hagfish?" he repeated, not looking up from the cabinet.

Soap stared at Corvo for a few moments, then sighed, dropping his arms to his sides. "Hagfish is fine," he mumbled, giving up. Corvo pulled a tin from the cabinet and tossed it to Soap, who caught it one-handed and pried back the tab on the seal just enough for him to inspect the tin's contents. The fish looked fine, and Soap pulled back the tab a little further before picking at the fish with his fingers; now that he was eating it more often, the taste of hagfish reminded him a bit of tuna, and even though it was over salted, it was otherwise fine. Soap noticed that the others in the pub tended to eat it on bread as a sort of open-faced sandwich, the chunks of fish dripping with sauce; however, Soap found that he preferred it plain, simply sticking a few pieces in his mouth as he turned on his heel and headed for the courtyard-facing door.

"Where are you going?"

"To see Piero." Soap pushed the door open and left without another word, leaving Corvo behind at the bar.

The bright afternoon sun, framed by wispy clouds that drifted lazily across the sky, offered little warmth as a light breeze carrying the smell of the river and the chill of the coming winter swept through the courtyard, sending a shiver racing up Soap's spine. Yes, winter was here. It was still far too early for snow, much to Soap's relief; he wasn't particularly fond of the stuff. It was cold and wet and always found a way into his boots, melting in his socks and freezing his toes—

It was October when Soap was in Prague. October 11, almost late autumn, cool enough for heavier jackets but still too warm for winter coats. Price's favorite time of the year; he enjoyed the brisk weather and the cold breezes, enjoyed the frost that glistened in the grass and the clouds his breath created in the earliest hours of the morning when he stepped out for a cigar before breakfast.

Soap wondered how he was, if he’d managed to escape Prague in one piece. What happened at Prague had happened eight days ago—yes, today was Soap's eighth day in Dunwall, his eighth day after passing out on that table in the safehouse. Soap still wasn't quite sure if everything in Dunwall was a dream or some projection of his mind, induced by a coma he'd slipped into. Everything felt so vivid, so real, from the stones that the city was built from to the Void-fueled powers that Corvo used that Soap still wasn't sure he fully understood. Had Soap in his entirety really fallen through some rift in space-time? Back home, did Soap go missing after slipping into unconsciousness? Did he disappear right before Price's eyes, or did Price abandon him, leaving him to his fate—whatever it was. Did Price even know what was happening?

Did anyone really know what was happening?

Soap stuffed a few chunks of hagfish into his mouth, chewing violently as if trying to annoy his thoughts into silence. There was no point in dwelling on the possibilities, on the hows and whys and what-ifs; Soap was here now, and now being what mattered. Pushing his thoughts of Prague out of his head, Soap walked up to the workshop and stepped inside unannounced. Piero wasn't anywhere to be seen on the ground floor; assuming he was upstairs, Soap took the steps up to Piero's quarters, the metal stairs groaning under his boots.

"Piero?" Soap called out. "Are you there, mate?"

There was a surprised cry, followed by a crash as something fell to the floor. Soap winced, quickly climbing the rest of the stairs and entering Piero's quarters. The engineer was kneeling on the floor beside his desk, picking up pieces of... _something_  Soap couldn't identify. Most likely some project that Piero was busying himself with.

"Ah, shite, sorry for startling you." Soap placed his can of hagfish atop of pile of books on Piero's trunk and hastily wiped the sauce on his pants before rushing to the engineer's aid, plucking the pieces of the mystery object that Piero had missed off the ground. Piero didn't look up, sniffing as he gathered the pieces in his hands.

"It's fine, Mr. MacTavish, accidents happen." Piero stood dumped the pieces of the mystery object on his desk. Soap did the same, placing the pieces he'd gathered beside Piero's pile and stepping back, giving him some space. The engineer slid into his seat, grumbling to himself as he searched the array of tools sitting on the desk.

"What're you making? Soap asked, grabbing his tin of brined hagfish off the trunk and taking a seat on Piero's bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. Piero didn't look up, finding the tool he was looking for and beginning the process of putting his little project back together.

"I am not quite ready to talk about that yet, this just a small part of something much bigger," Piero replied in his usual slow way of speaking, pausing to push his glasses up his nose. Soap raised a brow, popping another chunk of hagfish into his mouth.

"Yeah?" Soap mumbled around his mouthful of fish, chewing quietly as he watched Piero work. He was curious as to what Piero was making, but since he'd made it clear that he wasn't ready to reveal his project quite yet, Soap wasn't going to push it. "Want me to leave you to it, then?"

"No, no, I appreciate the company—nobody visits me." Piero glanced up and peered at Soap through his thick, round glasses. "I hear you and Corvo went into the Abbey and spanked the High Overseer in his own home; well done."

Soap let out a barking laugh, covering his mouth before he could spew out bits of half-chewed fish. "Aye, we 'spanked' him, alright," he replied once he regained his composure, unable to wipe the smile from his lips at Piero's choice of words. Remembering himself, Soap hastily added, "Well, Corvo did; I just made sure Martin got out of there in one piece." Although he trusted Piero not to blab to the Admiral, Soap still didn't want to take any chances at Havelock finding out that Martin had escorted  _himself_  to safety. It may be too late for a drastic reaction, but Soap didn't want to run the risk of upsetting the Admiral anyway; he did, in fact, defy orders.

Unless Martin himself had already shared that information; in which case, Soap thanked God that Havelock hadn't ripped him a new one. Yet.

Piero sniffed and went back to his work. "Indeed," he mumbled, leaning in closer to his project and pausing a moment to push his glasses further up his nose. "I would suspect that your place among the Loyalists is secure now; you've proven yourself useful to the cause and Havelock and Martin at least must consider you a permanent and valuable ally to the conspiracy."

Soap frowned, pondering this information. If Piero was right—and it was likely that he was—then Soap could consider himself safe in the Hound Pits Pub, or at least as safe as any of the other residents would be. Perhaps not as valuable as Corvo, but valued nonetheless. While he was still at the mercy of his hosts, Soap figured he didn't have to worry as much about getting thrown into the streets—or getting shot between the eyes, considering the circumstances.

And yet, at the same time, Soap didn't consider himself a permanent member of the conspiracy. Soap had his own life to go back to, his own world filled with its own problems. There was a war he needed to put an end to. Makarov was still out there, somewhere, and Soap needed to be there to put him down once and for all. His world still needed him—Price still needed him, his family still needed him—and it was a bad idea to get too attached to what was going on here, in this world that he still wasn't sure was real. Soap was already deeply involved as it was, perhaps too deeply.

Briefly, Soap's thoughts turned to Corvo. Out of all the people he'd met so far, it was easy to say that Corvo was the one Soap was the most attached to. He wasn't sure if Corvo thought of him as a friend—he wasn't even sure if he thought of  _Corvo_  as a friend—but he was good company, if a bit distant. A bit odd. And it was undeniable that Soap owed Corvo his life; if Corvo hadn’t been there to stop the Admiral, Soap would've gotten shot the moment he’d set foot in the Hound Pits. And from what Soap noticed, Corvo wasn't exactly friendly with any of the other residents of the Hound Pits.

Could Soap abandon him? Could Soap just up and leave one day, leaving Corvo alone with the conspiracy again?

Soap sighed. Part of him didn't want to, wanting to see this through to the end, but another part of him would take any chance at leaving without hesitation. Despite whether the Loyalists trusted him, despite any feelings Soap and Corvo might’ve had for each other beyond business, Soap had his own cause to fight for, his own duty to fulfill. This fight wasn't his. John MacTavish had no place in Dunwall.

"Do you and Corvo have another mission planned yet?" Piero asked, distracting Soap from his thoughts. The engineer scowled down at his work, shifting a few pieces around before going smooth-faced again, satisfied. "I suspect that the next step will be to find Lady Emily?"

"We're working on it," Soap answered. "Admiral Havelock and the others are going through Campbell's journal. They think they might be able to work out her location from there." Soap held out his tin at Piero, who looked up at the movement in his peripheral vision. "Want some?"

Piero peered over at the contents of the tin, then wrinkled his nose. "I hate hagfish."

"Noted." Soap popped the last few pieces of hagfish in his mouth and, lacking a napkin, licked his fingers clean as he set aside the empty tin. There was still plenty of sauce, but the thought of tipping the tin back and slurping up the last of the sauce like Corvo would made Soap's stomach churn. "Anyway, they've already broken the code, so it's only a matter of time until they find her location and send us to fetch her."

Piero hummed in acknowledgement, too absorbed in his work to make a coherent reply. Soap fell into silence, glancing out the window in front of Piero's desk. He didn't know how Piero could just leave the window wide open as it was; the cold breeze swept right in, chilling the room enough for Piero to need his jacket, which was stained with grease and worn at the elbows. Maybe Piero liked the cold. Maybe he was like Price, in that sense.

"You know, Mr. MacTavish, I've been meaning to talk to you," Piero said, Soap turning his head to look at him. Piero's eyes remained glued to his work.

"About?"

"Well, I never got much of a chance to learn about  _you_. As a natural philosopher, the circumstances of your...arrival are very interesting to me." Piero briefly glanced up, peering at Soap through his round glasses. It reminded him of an owl.

"Trust me, I wouldn't have any answers for you," Soap replied, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Piero shrugged and looked back down at his work.

"Part of me still suggests that it's possible that you could be suffering some kind of delusion that causes you to believe you're from some place that doesn't exist, but the evidence presented to us says otherwise," Piero explained unprompted, fiddling some more with his little project. "The technology you bring simply doesn't exist elsewhere in the Isles; that 'radio' you allowed me to take apart, for example, and your pistol—a curious thing, that is. I never would've thought such firepower without whale oil was possible, and in such a small weapon."

"Mhm." Soap started to pick at his nails, listening to Piero drone on.

"There must be so much more that you haven't brought with you, other technologies that even I nor Anton Sokolov could even dream of. And the fact that you're even here is a curiosity in itself; the subject of parallel worlds and realms has been discussed but I never would have thought someone from one of those realms would wind up here." Piero sniffed. "It must have taken some great force to shatter the veil between your world and ours."

"I have no idea what could've even caused that," Soap put in, not looking up from picking at his nails. "I was in the middle of a warzone when it happened." He winced when he pulled too far on a hangnail. "Shit," he whispered, "that hurts."

"Precisely!" Piero cried out, startling Soap as he suddenly swung around in his seat, the engineer now facing him. "We have no idea what could've caused this!" Waving around the tool in his hand, Piero continued, "Imagine what could happen if we found out! Not only has the theory of parallel worlds been proven, but imagine what we could do with that information! Humankind not only discovering the fabric of space-time, but figuring out how to  _alter_  it!" There was a bright look in Piero's widened eyes, a smile spreading across his face. "Imagine the advancements that would bring! The discovery of the century, no, the discovery of the  _millennium!_ "

"I was bleeding out and dying before it happened, and I was unconscious  _when_  it happened, Piero," Soap pointed out, picking his nails again. "And I was the only one present when it happened, whatever  _it_  was. I hate to burst your bubble but whatever you're imagining isn't going to happen in our lifetime."

Piero fell silent, the information turning over in his head. He then scowled, turning back to his work with a sigh. "You're right, I'm afraid," he mumbled. Part of Soap felt bad for crushing whatever it was Piero was imagining, but it wasn't like he was lying. "Still, the mere fact that you're here is a huge leap forward in natural philosophy. Before we only  _thought_  that parallel worlds existed, but now," Piero said with a grin, "now we  _know._ "

"...You're right," Soap admitted, "I know that you're right. But part of me still thinks that this is all a dream and I'm just in a coma back home."

"I suppose I don't blame you. You said you were 'bleeding out and dying,' as you so gracefully put it, and fell unconscious shortly after. I would have the same thoughts too, in your position. After all," Piero said matter-of-factly, "all of this must be overwhelming for a common mind to even begin to comprehend." He paused, then looked up at Soap, grinning sheepishly. "No offense intended."

"...None taken."

There was a pause as neither man knew what to say, Piero muttering to himself as he became fully absorbed in his work again. Soap glanced out the window, thinking over what they'd just discussed.

"Piero?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think I could ever go back?"

Piero paused his work, frowning as he considered his answer. "Without knowing what brought you here? Unlikely," he replied after a while, the corners of Soap's lips twitching downward even though he wasn't really surprised. "We would have to find the breach in the fabric of space-time that brought you here and figure out a way to send you back, and we simply don't have the technology to do so."

"A machine didn't bring me here," Soap pointed out. Piero pursed his lips.

"I'm well aware. Theoretically, the only way to send you back without such technology is to find the breach and, while there, put your body under the same stress.  _Theoretically._  That would be much too dangerous to attempt, and it may not even work." Piero hesitated. "You could just wind up dead, and I doubt the Admiral would allow us to attempt something so reckless."

"I don't care," Soap found himself saying. When Piero raised a brow at him, Soap added, "Oh, fine, I  _do_  care, but if I could survive almost dying three times now, I can do it again if it means I could go back home."

"Even if it might kill you?" Piero asked.

"Even if it might kill me." When Piero just stared, Soap continued; "I almost died getting here, and this isn't even my world. This conspiracy isn't even my fight. My fight is on a completely separate plane of existence, and if it takes me nearly dying to go back to it, to do my job, then I can risk it."

There was a brief moment of silence as Piero looked down at his work, quietly continuing to fiddle with it as he considered a response. Then the engineer paused, still peering down at his project, his hands resting on either side of it.

"What is it that you want to fight so badly for?"

Soap blinked. "What?"

"What is it that you want to fight so badly for, Mr. MacTavish?" Piero looked up from his contraption, staring straight at Soap. "What's so important that you're willing to abandon what's going on here and now in order to go back?"

"The world," Soap bit out. "Quite literally the entire damn world."

"A world that you no longer reside in," Piero pointed out. Soap felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, his jaw tightening. "Those problems don't affect you anymore. You're no longer involved. What you're involved in  _now_  is the conspiracy,  _our_  world's problems. You've become a member of this conspiracy, and despite your attachments to your own world,  _this_  world is your world now." Either not noticing or not caring about the way Soap's hands involuntarily curled into fists, Piero pushed up his glasses and continued, "As long as you're here, the plague is your problem. As long as you're here, the missing heir to the throne is your problem. As long as you're here, the Lord Regent is your problem."

Soap stared at Piero, baffled and feeling anger crawl up his spine, too stunned to think of a response.

"You're wrong," were the first words that came out of Soap's mouth after a long while. Piero raised his brows.

"I am?"

"None of this is my problem. Your fucked up government? This plague?  _None_ of this is my problem. I never asked to come here and deal with it." Soap sat up straight, fists resting on his thighs, ignoring the way Piero blinked at his profanity. "None of this has anything to do with me," he continued, gesturing vaguely towards the open window. "I never asked to be a part of this, I just  _stumbled_  here, and I don't have a choice but to take part in it."

"None of us do, Mr. MacTavish."

"At least this is  _your_  world that you're fighting for!" Soap snapped, leaping to his feet, Piero jumping at the way his boots slammed against the metal floor. "Look at me, Piero! I don't belong here! Not in the Hound Pits, not with your conspiracy, not in Dunwall, not in this entire fucking world!" He gestured wildly again, towards nothing in particular. "I'm needed at  _home_ , Piero. There's a  _world war_  that’s the result of a shitstorm that’s been brewing for  _five fucking years_  and I've been involved since the beginning, and I need to be there to help end it!" Soap stepped forward, slapping his open palm on his own chest. "I have my own people to fight for. Family and friends and people I don't even know but are dying every day because some maniac decided to turn everything upside-down. I have people who fucking  _need_ me, Piero! Imagine if Corvo suddenly vanished without a trace? Where the fuck would the conspiracy be then?!" Soap pointed out the window again, at the cold blue sky. "That's the position  _my_ allies are in.  _'Where the fuck is Soap?'_  Well?!" Soap threw both of his hands up. "Where the fuck  _am_ I, Piero?! Certainly not where I fucking belong!"

There was a long stretch of silence as neither man spoke, Piero stunned into silence, Soap crossing his arms tightly over his chest and sighing, exhaling sharply through his nose. This world had its own problems, and they weren't Soap's. He didn't know if he could find a way back or even if a way back was possible to begin with, but damn it, that didn't change the fact that he was needed somewhere  _other_ than Dunwall. He didn't understand how Piero could be so...so...

"I need another smoke," Soap grumbled, turning and snatching his empty tin of hagfish off Piero's trunk. "I'll be on the roof."

"Mr. MacTavish, wait—"

Soap stopped, looking over his shoulder at Piero. The engineer closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, taking off his glasses and rubbing them clean on his shirt. He perched his glasses back on his nose and opened his eyes, looking at Soap once again, regretfully. He looked almost sad.

"I'm sorry," Piero murmured.

Soap ground his teeth together. "...Yeah, well, me too."

"What I said was...insensitive. Please forgive me."

Soap hesitated, staring into Piero's eyes. The engineer, uncomfortable, averted his gaze, and Soap sighed and looked away. "Yeah, no. It's cool, Piero. I jus' need to blow off some steam." He paused, then added, "Sorry for shouting at you like that."

"No, no, you have every right to be frustrated, Mr. MacTavish." A pause. "I have a lot of...delicate parts to work with, Mr. MacTavish. I will need some peace, if you don't mind."

Soap took this as Piero's way of dismissing him. With a nod, Soap silently departed, heading swiftly down the stairs and leaving Piero alone with his work. Sighing, Soap exited the workshop and entered the Hound Pits, striding briskly into the taproom. He walked up to the counter, tossed the empty tin of hagfish upon it without bothering to look for a wastebin, then turned on his heel, marching for the stairs.

 _I shouldn't have lost my temper._  Soap had every right to be angry; he knew it and Piero knew it. If he didn't, he wouldn't have apologized. Still, a sense of guilt burned at the back of his mind. Piero may have been insensitive—

_No, that was beyond insensitive._

Soap scowled.

_...But he couldn't have known all of that._

Sighing again, Soap reached up and rubbed at his temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

_First my journal, and now Piero. Lovely day._

A slender form, clad in dark brown, was coming down the stairs and paused momentarily when she saw Soap coming up. Callista Curnow, Soap immediately recognized; the soon-to-be governess to Lady Emily, as planned by Havelock, and the niece of Captain Curnow, according to Corvo. She seemed a nice enough lady, although she and Soap never really talked beyond simple introductions. Now, she smiled politely at Soap, dipping her head as he drew closer. Soap returned the nod in an effort to be polite.

"Good afternoon, Mr. MacTavish," she greeted, her polite smile widening by just a small amount. She slowed and stepped to the side, expecting Soap to stop beside her.

"Good afternoon," Soap mumbled in response, keeping his gaze low as he passed Callista without slowing. She tilted her head, both brows raising curiously as she watched Soap continue up the steps.

"You seem troubled. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Soap grumbled, tossing a glance and a slight nod over his shoulder in Callista's direction. "Just need a smoke, is all." He walked on without another word, leaving Callista at the bottom of the steps; it felt rude to just leave her hanging like that, but damn it, Soap wasn't in a talking mood.

_I need a bloody cigarette._

The attic door was open just a crack; Soap pushed it open all the way, scowling at the way the hinges creaked loudly, begging for a good oiling. He stepped into the foyer and kicked the door closed behind him before striding into his and Corvo's shared quarters. His cigarettes and his Zippo were in his coat; all he had to do was grab it and head out to the roof—

Soap didn't notice Corvo until he moved, rising from his spot at the edge of the bed and stepping silently in front of Soap. Startled, he came to a sudden halt, staring up at Corvo with one brow raised. Corvo peered down at him in return, dark brown eyes unreadable. He'd obviously been waiting for a while.

"Corvo, what **—** "

Without a word, Corvo pushed a small object into Soap's chest, who let out a soft  _oof_  at the sudden contact. Quickly gathering the object in his hands, Soap looked down at it, not quite sure if he had the patience now to deal with whatever Corvo was up to—

 _My journal._  No, not Soap's journal. It was very similar, however, small and thin enough to be stored in his coat, bound in dark brown leather. It was somewhat new, its cover free of stains and the binding not yet worn from use. The edges were a bit worn, however, as if it had been once owned but never really used. Upon the journal was a pen, clipped to its cover; it was a fountain pen, and looked fairly expensive, bearing a single golden initial engraved onto its side—a "P."

"This is for you," Corvo stated, stepping back a pace as Soap continued to stare at the journal in his hands, running his fingers along the cover and tracing the outline of the pen. Corvo shifted his weight from foot to foot, clasping his hands behind his back. "It was Cecelia's," he explained, watching as Soap unclipped the pen from the cover of the journal and started thumbing through its pages. All of them were clean. Soap's brows knitted together and he drew a deep breath. "She had intended to keep a journal, but never found the time. She was going to find a way to sell it, but she agreed to give it to you, seeing as you might put it to better use." Corvo paused. "Your journal kept you sane in your world, yes? Maybe this new one will keep you sane here."

An overwhelming sense of gratitude washed over Soap, and he tore his eyes from the journal long enough to gaze wide-eyed at Corvo, whose lips were curved in a soft smile, deep brown eyes gleaming. "I don't know what to say."

"Just say you'll speak well of me in there," Corvo replied, nodding at the journal. "Whatever might happen in the coming days, I would like you to think of me as a..." Corvo trailed off, frowning at the floor.

"A friend?"

Corvo lifted his gaze, the slight smile returning. "Yes. A friend." Corvo tilted his head, peering at the journal in Soap's hands. "I expect you to be with us for quite some time, and I would like to enjoy your company as a companion while you're here."

Soap grinned. "You say that like I'm not a charming bastard," he responded, earning a snicker from Corvo. Soap looked back down at the journal in his hands. So, this was a friendship offering, a way to ensure that he and Corvo would be in good graces for the duration of the conspiracy. Soap wasn't sure of exactly how long he'd be sticking around; any day now the rift that brought him here could bring him back home, or he could wake up in some safehouse, but for the moment Soap pushed those thoughts aside. Corvo had gone out of his way to replace Soap's  _journal_ , and that was a gesture that resonated deep in him. Corvo  _wanted_  Soap's friendship, enough to put actual effort into building it, and that was something Soap couldn't help but admire.

"Thank you, Corvo," he murmured after a moment, looking up at Corvo once more. "This...means a lot. Really."

"Ah, it's the least I could do," Corvo replied, waving his hand dismissively. "I could've snuck out and raided some poor fool's house for a better gift, but that would've taken far too much time."

"Oi, don't depreciate the gift, mate. Besides—" Soap held up the fountain pen, one brow raised. "—This beauty is expensive enough. Where in the bloody hell did you even  _find_  this?"

Corvo smirked. "Lord Pendleton trusts us enough to leave the door to his quarters unlocked while he works with Havelock and Martin," he explained. "He has three of them, and plenty of ink. I'm sure he won't miss the one."

"You thieving bastard."

Corvo laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Only the best for you, friend." He then turned on his heel, starting to walk towards the other side of the room. "I'm going out for a smoke," he stated, glancing over his shoulder at Soap. "Care to join me?"

Soap hesitated a moment before grinning, clipping the fountain pen to the journal's cover once more before striding up to his mattress, bending over and grabbing his coat. "I'm coming," he replied, shrugging into his coat and tucking his new journal carefully into his breast pocket. Soap stepped beside Corvo, and together they walked out onto the roof, striding into the early winter air.

 

* * *

 

Pain.

He was in such blinding pain, his body wracked with a deep ache that radiated from his chest. Makarov gasped, sucking air into his burning lungs, and rolled over onto his side. He clawed at his throat, still feeling the cable wrapped tightly around his neck— No, it was gone—

The chaos atop the Hotel Oasis had been replaced by cold silence. No fire. No smoke. No glass. No Price. However, Makarov still  _felt_. Felt the agony that gripped his trembling body like a vice, refusing to let go. Felt the deep, burning ache in his lungs, the tightness of his throat, the lead-like heaviness that weighed down on his limbs, the chill that had long settled in his fingers and toes. Felt the surface he was lying on, cold and hard—wood? Yes, Makarov was horizontal now. On a floor.

_How?_

His life had ended on top of that hotel. He was sure of it. Price had killed him, shoved him through that skylight with a flight cable wrapped around his neck. There was a sickening crack, a strangled sound an animal might make in its last moments, and Makarov's world went black.

Yes. He had died.

_Then why am I still breathing?_

Slowly, Makarov opened his eyes as much as he could bear. There was a dim light that was simultaneously too bright and too dark. His vision swam, everything a distorted mess of vague shapes and dull colors that he couldn't make any sense of. Makarov groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he turned his head towards the floor, pressing his forehead against its coldness. His stomach churned and he felt bile trying to rise in his throat. He held it back, curling up on his side in an attempt to contain the burning pain in his chest.

He decided that this must be what awaited him in the end. Not Heaven and not Hell. Limbo, perhaps. Or purgatory. Makarov’s thoughts, slippery as eels, drifted to the Eastern Orthodox teachings from his childhood, teachings that he still believed in, to an extent, no matter how distorted his interpretation of them had become over the years. Was this the Afterlife that awaited him? No, this couldn’t be—Makarov was sure that it would be different if this were any sort of life after death, that everything wouldn’t feel so raw, so physical, so  _real_ —

There was a soft gasp, distant, yet still heard. There was the sound of fabric rustling, the sound of knees scraping against wood. A hand rested on Makarov’s shoulder. Small. Warm. There was a voice, gentle—a child’s.

“Mister? Are you alright?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I worked on this little by little throughout the week since we were snowed in and I have plenty of time on my hands, then I finished it all last night because who needs sleep when you have a Word document staring you in the face (and chores to procrastinate on)?~~
> 
> ~~Chapter 11 coming soon!~~


	11. The Ice-Eyed Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Publication Date: 04/24/16  
> NO MAJOR EDIT NEEDED  
> 

The candles in Emily’s room burned low as the evening dragged on, melted wax dripping onto the floor opposite of the worn mattress that served as a bed. Shadows danced along the walls and crouched in the corners, threatening to completely consume the room and plunge everything into darkness. Emily was crouched by a candleholder, which held three burning candles, in a corner between the wall and a makeshift partition constructed from an old, soiled mattress stuffed into a broken bed frame turned on its side. With a biscuit from supper in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, Emily raced to finish her last painting of the evening in the dimming light, frowning down at her paper with her thin blanket draped over her shoulders.

Seven months. That was how long Emily had been here, trapped in this room with no way to leave and nowhere to go. Seven months since Emily last saw Corvo, seven months since the man in red hurt Mother and the masked men in black took Emily away, bringing her to this place—the Golden Cat, she learned it was called—and leaving her here with Madam Prudence and the Twins and the fancy-dressed ladies, with only her dreams and her art and her loneliness to keep her company. If it weren’t for the kindness of the fancy-dressed lady who told her the date every morning with breakfast, Emily would’ve lost track of time long ago.

Emily wished that the ladies who brought her breakfast and lunch could stay longer, that they could talk with her more or draw with her. But they didn’t.  _They couldn’t_. That was the rule; nobody was to visit her outside of mealtime, and nobody was allowed to stay for longer than strictly necessary. Not the ladies who brought meals and lit Emily’s candles and changed out her chamberpot; not Madam Prudence, who brought supper in the evening and paints and paper when Emily was out of art supplies; not the Twins, Morgan and Custis, as the Madam called them, who came very rarely to begin with. Not that Emily even liked the Madam or the Twins; the Twins were rude and said cruel things, and while the Madam was civil, she was cold and always had a condescending edge to her voice. Emily suspected that the Madam didn’t like children.

In the hours between the receptions of meals, there was little else for Emily to do besides sleep and paint. In the beginning, Emily would paint pictures of the things she saw here; the yellow cat that adorned the posters around this place, the pretty outfits of the fancy-dressed ladies, Madam Prudence’s favorite purple silk pants and the cold smiles of the Twins. She tried to express in her art the chill that seemed to permanently linger in her room, the smell of perfume that would waft in from the hall whenever someone opened her door, the strange sounds that would sometimes rise from the floorboards and the whispers that came from the rooms of the fancy-dressed ladies at night. Now, as the loneliness took a stronger hold on her and the homesickness crept into her heart, Emily painted pictures of Mother and Corvo, trying to remember their faces and the way they smiled.

Madam Prudence said that Mother was dead, but Emily didn’t want to believe it. The Twins said that Corvo was dead, too, and Emily didn’t want to believe that, either. Mother had to have gotten better; she had Sokolov, who could heal and cure anyone and anything, and she had Corvo, who could protect her while she got better. Maybe Corvo even found the man in red and his masked friends and sent them to prison while Mother recovered so that she could be even safer. There  _had_  to be a way for Mother to have gotten better. And Corvo… Corvo couldn’t be dead. He was too strong to die. The Twins said that Corvo had his head chopped off in prison, but Emily knew that couldn’t have been true. She felt it in her heart, a deep ache that never seemed to leave. The Twins spoke nonsense; there was no reason for Corvo to have gone to prison. He never hurt anybody, and he never would, unless they tried to hurt Mother or Emily. He  _hated_  hurting people.

And so, Emily waited. All these months, Emily waited. She would paint and eat and paint some more and look up at the door and wait and hope that one day, Corvo would come through the doorway. She hoped that he would take her away from this place, away from the Golden Cat and Madam Prudence and the Twins, so that they could go back home to Mother. She hoped that everything would go back to normal and that she would never have to worry about the Twins or the man in red ever again. Twice, Emily tried to run out and find Corvo herself, so that he could see her and take her home. Both times, Emily was caught; once by the Twins, who yelled vile, vile things as they dragged Emily back up to her room, and once by the Madam, who silently grasped Emily’s arm in a steely, painfully tight grip and escorted her to her room, the tips of her fingers leaving bruises on Emily’s arm. Now there was a new rule; Emily’s door must always be locked. And locked it was, only opened when someone came to feed her or tend to her candles and chamberpot, the door opened just wide enough for someone to step past the threshold and closed again moments later. Now, all Emily could do was sit and wait and stare at a locked door and pray for Corvo to find her and take her home.

Sometimes, Emily would dream of that day. She would dream that the door would open and Corvo would be there, a smile on his face and arms open wide. He would pick her up and carry her out of this room, out of the Golden Cat, and then they would be at Dunwall Tower where Mother waited. Mother would kiss her cheeks and welcome her home and hug her tight, and Mother and Corvo would never let Emily go again. The masked men in black would never come again and the man in red would never come again.

And sometimes, in her dreams, Mother and Corvo wouldn’t be smiling. Sometimes, Emily dreamed of that day seven months ago, when the masked men in black came and attacked them in the pavilion, when the man in red hurt Mother. Instead of smiles, there would be screams. Screams and blood and panic, Emily’s blood running cold and tears burning in her eyes as she cried out for Mother, helpless as one of the masked men grabbed her, the sound of disturbed air signaling his presence. Emily woke from these dreams crying, her cheeks wet with tears and whimpers sounding deep in her throat, the darkness of her room suffocating her despite feeling so vast, so lonely. It was these nights when Emily believed, in some dark corner of her mind, that Mother and Corvo really were dead. It was these nights when Emily felt the hope in her heart slowly start to ebb away. It was these nights when Emily felt that if Mother and Corvo were dead, then she should be dead, too.

Sometimes, Mother and Corvo weren’t in Emily’s dreams at all. Instead, Emily would float in a vast expanse of nothingness, lonely islands of land and buildings and meaningless, forgotten things scattered across a periwinkle sky. These dreams were filled with the mournful songs of whales, which swam slowly in the distance, and the salty taste of the sea, and more often than not, a young man would be there, black mist swirling around his body. He had a face chiseled from ice and eyes blacker than night, and he would talk to Emily. Emily would never answer his questions about Mother or Corvo or the things she’d seen at the Golden Cat or the loneliness in her heart; instead, Emily asked her own questions. She asked the man who he was and why he was here, what he wanted, and each question was met with silence and a knowing smile, the man with black eyes shaking his head.

And sometimes, Emily would dream of  _him_.

He wasn’t anybody Emily had seen before. Not Corvo, not the man in red, not the man with black eyes. He was older, older than Corvo, and short. He wore black clothes that made him look like a shadow and he had hair so dark it looked black, his skin brown, almost like Corvo's, but lighter. And he had eyes unlike anything Emily had seen in the past. They weren’t black like the black-eyed man's, nor were they impossibly deep and calm like Corvo’s brown eyes; they were sharp and cool, like shards of ice plucked from the river during the coldest of the winter months, and they were green and blue, each eye a different color. He never spoke, and only appeared when the sky was periwinkle and if the man with black eyes was absent. He never answered Emily’s calls, her questions. Emily asked the man with black eyes about him, but the black-eyed man never said a word, his cool smile only widening. The man with ice-eyes used to appear only rarely, but over time, his appearances became more and more frequent. Now, he dominated Emily’s dreams, the air around him filled with a feeling Emily could only describe as urgency.

It was the ice-eyed man who was the subject of Emily’s current painting, the child hurrying to finish before the candles burned out. The urgency that she felt around the man in her dreams lingered long after she woke, and even now she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as if he were watching her with those blue-and-green eyes of his. Emily didn’t know what the dreams meant, but she knew that they meant  _something_ ; the man’s presence was a message, that much Emily understood—or, at least, she hoped she understood. Just what he wanted, though, was a mystery. Emily hoped to make sense of the dreams by painting the man; maybe, if she brought him to the waking world, the feelings around him wouldn’t be so urgent and confusing.

Emily had worked on this project all day. A pile of discarded papers sat on top of her mattress, all of them rejected attempts at capturing the ice-eyed man’s likeness. Emily was only satisfied with her work after supper, and now she rushed to finish the painting before darkness fell over the room and she could do no more. Thankfully, the painting was almost done; the man’s clothing and hair were finished, done in black paint, his face done in lightened brown. The world behind him was painted bright blue; Emily couldn’t figure out how to mix the few colors she had to make the specific shade of periwinkle she wanted. One eye—the right eye, the blue one—was done, the iris carefully filled in with the same attention Sokolov would give his own paintings, and the nose and mouth were already painted in thick black lines. All that was left was the other eye; the eyes in Emily’s paintings were always left for last.

Emily stuffed the last of her biscuit in her mouth, chewing on it as she felt around for her paints. Finding them, she pulled them closer, holding them near the candles to get a better look at the colors. Madam Prudence gave her a rather simple set of paints; white, black, blue, yellow, and red. The five basics. They were in small amounts, much to Emily’s frustration, and Madam Prudence refused to get her more colors than the ones Emily had; she claimed that Emily should be happy with what she got. Despite this, Emily could manage with what she was given; Sokolov had taught her how to mix paint so that she could make a rainbow of colors out of just three, as well as how to make different hues and shades with black and white. Briefly, Emily recalled the short lesson Sokolov had given her, holding her paintbrush over the modest palette.

 _Blue and red make purple_ , Emily thought, still chewing on her biscuit despite it now being a tasteless mush.  _Red and yellow make orange…and yellow and blue make green._

A low thump sounded from somewhere in the room just as Emily dipped her paintbrush in the blue paint, the sound just barely loud enough to be heard. Emily paused, ceasing all movement and not looking up from her palette as she listened for any further noise, quickly disappointed by the stretch of silence that followed. With a shrug, she swallowed the last of her biscuit and swirled her paintbrush in the paint, sighing to herself.  _Just my imagination._

There was another thump, this one louder. Emily lowered her palette, lifting her head and turning towards the source of the sound. That noise was definitely not her imagination, she decided, and nor was the sound that followed: the sound of rustling fabric and limbs scraping against the hardwood, the sound of air being disturbed. Between the gaps where the mattress-bedframe partition failed to conceal anything, Emily thought she saw the air ripple, darken, the center of the room becoming darker than the shadowed corners—

_The masked men._

Emily’s heart thudded in her chest as she dropped her paintbrush and palette, ducking her head down and almost knocking over the candles in the process. Curling into a tight ball on the floor, Emily squeezed her eyes shut, tightly clasping her hands over her head. She heard the familiar  _whoosh_  of air marking the arrival of the masked men, her blood running cold.

 _Why are they here?_  Emily felt tears burn in her eyes, her body starting to tremble with fear she struggled to contain. She wanted to scream, to cry out for someone to help her—for Corvo to come find her—but her voice refused to cooperate, nothing but a small whimper wrenching itself from her tightening throat.  _Why are they here?_

She waited for the sound of boots on hardwood, for the sound of heavy breathing through those horrid masks that the men always wore. And with each passing moment, only silence filled the room, undisturbed by any noise for what felt like forever. Slowly, carefully, Emily dared to lift her head, blinking tears from her eyes as she peered through the makeshift partition, her body still shaking. She didn’t see the black-clad men in masks she expected; much to her bafflement, Emily instead saw a black shape curled up on the floor, facing away from Emily. It trembled as if it were cold or afraid. Then, it made a noise.

It…groaned?

Emily stared for a few moments, her fear quickly replaced with confusion as she registered what she was seeing. Despite their dark clothes and the fact that Emily couldn’t see their face, the child knew that this wasn’t one of the masked men. In the dim, dying candlelight, Emily could see that the clothes were all wrong; the jacket the person was wearing wasn’t the same as the heavy coats the masked men wore, and they weren’t wearing a hood, the back of their head exposed. The masked men never removed their hoods, ever. Slowly, Emily rose to her hands and knees, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and taking a deep breath. The person on the floor wasn’t a threat; that much was certain.

_But how did they get here?_

Emily crawled around the makeshift partition to get a better look, her knees lightly scraping against the hardwood. The form was still trembling and making small, pained noises as if they were hurt. Emily carefully approached them, then stopped a foot or so away from where the person lay, silently watching them for a few moments; at this distance, Emily could see that the person before her was a man, the soft sounds escaping him deep and almost undeniably male. Still, she couldn’t see his face; he had his head turned towards the ground, his forehead pressed against the floor. Slowly, hesitantly, Emily reached for the man, resting her hand on his shoulder. The man stiffened at her touch, then relaxed, a shudder passing through his body.

“Mister?” Emily murmured, gently shaking the man’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

The man muttered something, his voice low and words slurred and inaudible. He pulled his shoulder from Emily’s grasp, curling into a tighter ball. Emily frowned, leaning slightly closer to him and reaching for his shoulder again, her fingers brushing against the coarse material of his coat. The coat wasn’t black; it was more of a dark grey, darkened by stains that Emily couldn’t place. It was torn, too, as if someone had taken knives to the back of his coat. The stains were centered on the tears—

_Is that blood? Is he bleeding?_

“Did someone hurt you?” Emily asked, the child gnawing nervously on her lip when the man, who still trembled, responded with silence. She gently squeezed the man’s shoulder, then gasped and withdrew her hand when the man jerked away, hissing through his teeth. Briefly, Emily considered backing away, but she decided against it; this man needed her help, and she still had to find out who he was.

The man grumbled something, louder this time, but still slurred and impossible to understand. Emily dared to lean even closer, keeping her hands firmly planted on the floor in front of her.

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“ _Ostav’ menya v pokoe_ ,” the man hissed, his voice still slurred, yet understandable. Emily’s frown deepened; the man was speaking Tyvian, or at least it sounded like he was, and Emily hadn’t learned much of it beyond a few polite words. Her tutor had only just started teaching her Tyvian shortly before Emily was taken away.

“Mister, I can’t understand you.”

The man turned his head, lifting it slightly from the floor. The side of his face was now clearly visible; his brown skin had taken on a sickly pallor and was mottled with dark, angry bruises, streaked with dried blood. Emily’s breath hitched in her throat at the sight, a knot twisting in her chest; someone had definitely hurt this man. The man’s face contorted in a mixture of pain and irritation as he snarled, his voice hoarse, “ _Leave me be_.”

Emily watched as the man dropped his head again, turning as if he were trying to bury his face in the hardwood. The child continued to gnaw on her lip, trying to figure out what to do. This man was hurt badly; she had no doubt now that the stains on the back of his coat were bloodstains. Someone had attacked him, and someone brought him here; maybe it was the masked men after all. But why would they attack someone, then leave that person with Emily? What was the point of that?

_Who even is this man?_

After a moment’s hesitation, Emily crawled around the man, moving so that she was between him and the door his body faced. If the man could hear her, he didn’t react, now intent on ignoring the child as she moved around him. It was harder to see the front of the man; he was facing away from the candlelight, and his face was turned towards the floor, his features wreathed in shadow. She could see, however, that whatever was visible of his face was covered in bruises and cuts, dried blood crusted along the angle of his cheek and on what Emily could see of his forehead. He was curled in on himself, so Emily couldn’t see the front of his clothes very well, but she saw that while the front of his coat wasn’t as cut up as the back, it was almost just as bloody. Emily couldn’t tell who the man was, his features hidden from her by shadow and by the fact that his face was turned away.

“Mister?” Emily murmured, the man not reacting to her voice. Ignoring her, it seemed. Emily reached for the man again, gently brushing her fingers against his shoulder. When he didn’t react, she pressed her palm against him, fingers curling in the fabric of his bloodied coat. “Who are you?”

The man’s lips moved again, though whatever he said was inaudible as he shifted out of Emily’s grasp, starting to roll over and away from her. Slowly, the man rolled onto his back, the light from the candles inching across his face the more he turned, revealing more and more of his features—

Emily’s breath hitched in her throat. 

_I know him._

His face was covered with bruises and cuts, and one of his eyes seemed to be swollen shut, but Emily still recognized the man. It was  _him_. The ice-eyed man she’d seen in her dreams, the one she spent all day trying to paint. He wasn’t just a dream anymore; he was  _real_ , here and breathing and _existing_  in Emily’s room. Emily stared at the man, wide-eyed, as he continued to roll over onto his other side, once more facing away from Emily and curling into a tight ball. The child quickly crawled back around so that she faced him again, planting herself before him and leaning down so that she could get a better look at his face, which was once more pressed against the floor.

 _It’s him._  He was here. Emily reached for his shoulder again, wanting to touch him again so that she knew that he was really here. Through the material of his coat, the ice-eyed man was warm, his body still shivering, though not as much as it had been before. Emily swallowed the lump in her throat, her heart fluttering in her chest; so  _this_  was what the dreams were trying to tell her. This was why they were so urgent, so frequent. The dreams were telling her that the ice-eyed man was coming.

But Emily still didn’t know from where, and she still didn’t know  _how_ , or  _why_.

The ice-eyed man turned his head away from the floor, facing Emily fully. One of his eyes—the blue one, on the right—opened into a tiny sliver, the man peering up at Emily with his brows pulled together and lips twisted in a scowl. ” _Leave me be_ ,” he repeated, his voice hoarse and cracking. Emily drew her hand away from his shoulder, her brows knitting together in worry, and the man’s eye closed again, his head turning back towards the floor.

Part of Emily wanted to heed the ice-eyed man’s request, to go back to her mattress and blow out the candles and let him rest. Another part of her wanted to stay, determined to help him and find the answers to the questions swirling around in her head. The man’s arrival may have answered one question, but it also sparked a flurry of other questions, each one dancing in Emily’s mind.  _How is he here? Why is he here?_

_Did the Madam know he was coming?_

Immediately, Emily recalled the first rule that the Madam and the Twins set into place; outside of feeding her or tending to her other needs, no one was allowed in Emily’s room. Not even the Twins or the Madam stayed for long, and the fancy-dressed ladies only stayed for a few fleeting moments. Guests were completely out of the question. Unless that rule had suddenly changed, there was no way the Madam would approve of this man’s presence in Emily’s room, and it was likely that she didn’t even know the man was here in the first place. If the Madam had brought him to stay with Emily, he would’ve come during the day, or perhaps during supper, with the Madam’s supervision—but he hadn’t come that way, simply appearing in Emily’s room much like the way the masked men in black appeared from thin air, the space around him shuddering and changing with his arrival. If the Madam didn’t know that he was coming, and she came and saw him here…

 _No._  The man had only just arrived, his arrival announced by Emily’s constant dreams. She had so many questions, and the man was hurt and needed help; she couldn’t let the Madam take him away. Not now. Not after seven months of being alone.

_But where could I hide him?_

Emily turned and stared over her shoulder at the back of the room, gnawing on her lower lip. There were two makeshift partitions that she had made, little room dividers constructed for the sole purpose of giving her some semblance of privacy in this already lonely room. The first was the mattress-and-bedframe partition she’d been sitting behind just a few minutes ago, and the other was constructed of a table turned on its side, an old, worn out side propped up against it. Neither of them did a good job of hiding the back of the room from the door; so much was still exposed, rendering the partitions useless when it came to hiding. There was a desk shoved against the far wall, but that was useless, too; the space underneath, while more than enough space for the ice-eyed man to lay in, would be clearly visible to anyone who walked in the door. The man would be seen immediately.

Emily turned her attention to the curtains hanging above the desk, held up by rather weak curtain rods that could barely handle the weight of the curtains. The curtains were made of a thick, red fabric; perfect for hiding behind, if only they reached down far enough—

 _Wait._  The curtains were long; they were just hung up high, the edges of the fabric just barely touching the surface of the desk. If Emily were able to pull them down, she would be able to drape them over the desk…then the ice-eyed man could hide underneath…

Emily drew a deep breath. She could do this. She would have to do it quickly, before the candles—which were now burning dangerously low—went out, but she could do this.

The man needed to be comfortable under the desk; that was the first thing. Emily rose to her feet, running up to the mattress-bedframe room divider; she needed her own mattress to sleep on, so this one would have to do. Carefully, Emily pried the mattress from the rusty, broken bedframe, wincing as some of the fabric of the mattress tore and the stuffing started to come out. She managed to free the mattress rather quickly, wasting no time in dragging it around the bedframe and up to the desk, careful not to knock over the candleholder on the floor. She shoved the mattress beneath the desk, then kicked at it, making sure that it was completely concealed before turning and running back up to the man on the floor. She crouched down again, firmly grasping the man’s shoulder and shaking him gently, trying to ignore the way the man both winced in pain and scowled in irritation.

“Mister, I have a better place for you to rest, but you have to move,” Emily said, her voice coming out firmer than intended. The man didn’t budge, ignoring her words. “Please,” she added, her voice coming out as a low whine, “If you don’t move, you’ll get in trouble.”

Emily drew in a shaky breath as the man’s lips twisted in a grin, the expression cold and ironic. He let out a sharp exhale that might’ve been an attempt at a laugh before wincing, his face crumpling as he gasped in what Emily assumed to be pain. Emily shook the man again, urgently, willing him to move before the candles went out. The room was only getting darker, and if the candles all went out before the man was hidden, it would all be over.

“ _Please_ ,” Emily pleaded. “I want to help you.”

A few moments passed before the man turned his head towards Emily again, his blue eye peeking open. He looked up at the child, not scowling this time, though his lips were turned downwards in a frown.

“I promise, I’ll leave you alone after you move,” Emily whispered. She forced her lips to curve into a smile, attempting to encourage the man into listening. After a few heartbeats, the man grunted, his eye slipping closed again. Emily scooted out of the way as the man rolled over onto his stomach, and then lifted himself to his hands and knees, his body still shaking. Emily felt a stab of pity as the man let out a pained groan; she hated to make him move when all he wanted to do was lie down, but it was for the best. If he stayed where he was and the Madam saw him, he and Emily both would get into a lot of trouble; just how much, Emily didn’t want to find out.

“That’s it,” Emily whispered. The man pushed himself into an upright position on his knees, facing the back of the room. His blue eye peeked open again, his other eye still shut, and the man slowly, carefully, rose to his feet, his legs swaying and ready to crumple beneath him. Emily jumped to her feet and reached for the man’s hand, which was gloved in dark brown leather, and took it firmly in her own, gently yet urgently tugging on it.

“This way,” she muttered as and started walking to the back of the room, careful not to go so fast as to throw the man off-balance. The man took uneven, staggering steps forward, his knees threatening to give way with each step; when Emily looked up, she could see that the man was staring straight forward, his face grey and set in a determined expression. She thought she saw a few beads of sweat start to form along his forehead, his messy dark hair starting to stick to his skin. A few strands were stuck in the dried blood in a cut along his forehead, the wound long and ugly; he needed tending to, but for now, all Emily could do for him was hide him.

The ice-eyed man’s legs finally gave way as soon as they made it to the desk, the man letting out a sigh as he fell to his knees, one hand shooting forward and grasping the edge of the desk, the other tightly squeezing Emily’s. The shivers that had started to recede earlier had come back full-force, the man trembling almost violently as he took a few deep breaths, his face twisting in pain with each inhale and exhale. Just walking this far had taken so much out of him; Emily wished that she could do more, that she could help him feel better. But for now, hiding him was more important.

“You can stay under this desk,” Emily murmured, glancing back at the candleholder to check how much time they had left. Emily’s heart pounded in her chest when she realized that one of them had already burned out; the second and third were soon to follow. The child faced the man beside her again, squeezing his hand. “Please hurry. We don’t have much time.”

The man slowly pulled his hand from Emily’s grasp, releasing the table and returning to his hands and knees. He crawled under the table, feeling around with his gloved hands until they found the mattress Emily had placed there. Seemingly satisfied with what he found, the man crawled on top of the mattress and laid upon it, curling back up into a tight ball and letting out a low, relieved sound.

Emily didn’t have time to waste; she rose back to her feet and scrambled on top of the desk, confident that the strong wood would be able to support her weight. All she had to do now was to pull the curtains free and drape them over the desk, hiding the space beneath from anyone who would come in the door. Emily grabbed onto the thick red fabric, tugging on it; the curtain rods bent, but didn’t break, the curtains still secure and hanging far too high to be of any good.

“Come on!” Emily pleaded, glancing over her shoulder at the candleholder again. She looked just in time to see the second candle burn out, leaving just one candle with a weak flame, wax dripping down the holder and onto the floor.

 _No!_  Panic gripped Emily as she saw the candle burn lower and lower, just moments away from going out. It was now or never. Emily turned back to the curtains, filled with a new burst of energy. With a grunt, she yanked as hard as she could on the curtains, her effort rewarded with a resounding snap as the curtain rods finally broke, the rods and the curtains falling upon the desk. They made a loud noise, but Emily didn’t have time to worry about it. The child leapt onto the floor, holding the ends of the curtains in her hands, and threw the thick fabric over the opening beneath the desk, hiding the new occupant underneath.

The final candle went out.

 

* * *

 

“When will we send Corvo out?”

Havelock took a deep drag of his cigarette, holding in the smoke for a few heartbeats before letting out a slow exhale, the smoke winding up to the ceiling. The former Admiral was sitting at his desk in his quarters, staring up at the ceiling with Overseer Martin standing on the other side of his desk, leaning against it. Martin stared expectantly at Havelock, his fingers lightly drumming against the wood of the desk. Havelock’s breakfast sat, untouched, before him, the jellied eels spread over toast pushed as far away from the older man as possible.

“Soon,” Havelock muttered, still looking up at the ceiling. The blinds on most of the windows in his quarters were open, and now, early morning light filled the room, eliminating the need for any lamps. The wood stove still burned on the far side of the room near Havelock’s bed, warding off the chill of the draft. “As soon as possible. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“I still don’t trust the information in Campbell’s journal,” Martin stated, standing up straight and crossing his arms over his chest. “Who knows if she’s where we think she is.”

“He states her location directly,” Havelock pointed out, turning his gaze on Martin as he takes another drag. The Overseer frowned, pursing his lips and staring down at the Black Book, which currently sat on Havelock’s desk. The journal was now accompanied by piles of papers, notes and translations on the things hidden within Campbell’s journal, organized by date and topic.

“His last update on Emily that we translated was written months ago,” Martin responded. Havelock looked back up at the ceiling as Martin continued, “She could’ve been moved since then, and in the time it took us to translate this, she could’ve been taken to some completely different location in response to Campbell's death.”

“Isn’t that more of a reason to send out Corvo now?” Havelock pressed. “There’s a chance she’s still there, and if she is, we want him to get her before Burrows decides to move her.”

Martin huffed. “True. But we aren’t even done translating the journal yet; there’s still some more entries to go through, and that’ll take another day. Maybe two, at most.”

“And you think there may be something more there?”

“I think it’s possible.”

Havelock remained silent for a few moments, thinking. For the past few days, the inner circle of the Loyalists had been hard at work deciphering the contents of Campbell’s journal, which was written in code and thus took a little longer to go through and pull important information from. And there was a sea of information in that journal; names, locations, allies to the High Overseer and the Lord Regent, blackmail on other Overseers, secrets of the Abbey that could destroy reputations if uncovered to the public, plans and plots that the Lord Regent had confided in Campbell but had not yet set into motion. There was so much that the Loyalists got, and among all the things they learned was the bit of information that they were looking for: the location of Lady Emily Kaldwin.

Problem was, the last time Campbell had written about her was during the Month of Harvest. It was now the Month of Ice.

Havelock wanted to send Corvo out right away. Martin, on the other hand, wanted to wait and see if Campbell’s journal had anything left to offer them about Emily. Despite his desire to get all of this done straight away, Havelock could appreciate why Martin would want to wait; perhaps something had changed in the recent months, especially with the escape of Corvo. It was possible that Burrows could’ve had the child moved after Corvo’s escape, and the Loyalists hadn’t found that information yet; they were only just getting into the entries written around the time Corvo escaped from Coldridge. It would be foolish of them to send Corvo out to fetch Emily, only to find out that she had been moved to a completely different location, causing the Loyalists to waste precious time and resources on a mission that yielded no reward.

And, there was another problem. Lord Pendleton’s older brothers, who currently held the Pendleton voting bloc in Parliament, were stated by Campbell to be the ones in charge of holding Emily until the time was right for Burrows to uncover her and frame himself as the hero who found the Empress’s missing daughter. The fact that the Pendleton twins had power in Parliament was enough to make them potential targets before; now, they practically had red targets painted on their backs, a fact that Treavor knew all too well. From what the younger Pendleton said of his older brothers, Havelock and Martin gathered that the Twins were vile men all around; still, Pendleton didn’t like hearing that he might have to order the death of his brothers. In fact, when he first heard that his own brothers were the ones holding Emily, he refused to believe it. He had come to terms with it now, but he still wasn’t happy with the circumstances.

“Farley.” Martin’s voice distracted the former Admiral from his thoughts. Havelock tapped the ashes from his cigarette, then took another drag, his gaze wandering back down to Martin. The Overseer was leaning against the desk again, his weight supported by his hands. He looked expectantly back at Havelock, his expression carefully neutral.

Havelock paused a moment, holding his breath before exhaling another cloud of smoke. “Do you really want to spend more time looking through the journal?” he muttered, glancing at the Black Book sitting on his desk. “Do you really think we can afford that?”

“I’d say it’s worth it,” Martin responded, standing up straight once more. Havelock pursed his lips, then took one final drag from his cigarette before crushing it in the ashtray sitting beside his lamp.

“Tell Pendleton to get his ass moving, then,” Havelock grumbled, glancing out the window. “You want more time? We have two days. Maximum.”

 

* * *

 

When Makarov woke up again, all he could see was darkness.

His lungs no longer burned, nor was his throat tight, each breath coming easier and easier with each passing moment. He no longer felt like there was a fire in his lungs, restricting his breathing and filling his world with pain. His thoughts were no longer a swirl of pain and confusion, and when his eyes opened—both of them, with little effort—he could see that the world around him, like his mind, was blissfully, blessedly empty, filled only with darkness.

Makarov remained still where he was, drawing a slow, deep breath. The air that entered his lungs smelled of dust and dirt, and was stale, as if this place never received a fresh breeze. That was fine. Makarov didn’t care. His lungs weren’t on fire and he could breathe right. Before, Makarov had taken that for granted. Now, breathing felt like a luxury.

Makarov’s eyes slid shut, the Russian letting out a low sigh. There were a few moments of peace, a few moments where his mind remained wonderfully blank, before his memories crept back in from the back of his mind.

Hotel Oasis. Price. The skylight. The cable. Makarov was dead. Well, he should have been dead; he was still breathing, which…shouldn’t have been possible, given the circumstances. Or maybe he really was dead, and one still needed air in the afterlife; it felt more believable that Makarov was now in the afterlife. The darkness, the emptiness, the silence and calmness that filled the stale air around him; maybe Makarov had passed on to whatever came after one died. There was still a deep ache settled in his muscles, and while his throat was no longer tight, it was still sore, but despite this, he felt more at peace than he did when he initially woke up, when his world was consumed by agony and confusion, each thought swirling around him in a whirlwind that refused to make any sense. Maybe this was what it was like to be dead.

Then, there were more memories, fleeting and faint, but still there. The voice, the child, the firm hand that never seemed to leave his shoulder and the hand that guided him to this place. That’s it. This way. Under this desk. Makarov remembered forcing his limbs to move, the way his legs shook and threatened to collapse from under him with each step he took, the way he crawled until he found something soft to lay on top of. He now registered a musky smell, not as strong as the smell of dust, but still perceptible. He wasn’t lying on something cold or hard anymore; Makarov turned his face towards what he was lying on, sniffed, then turned his face away again, his nose wrinkling. The musky smell was coming from whatever it was he was lying on. A cushion, maybe? Or a mattress. An old one.

The child had refused to leave him alone, despite his demands. Makarov was irritated then, but now, he was just happy to have somewhere quiet and soft to lie down in, his body no longer shaking, wracked with pain and the chill that had permeated the air before. Perhaps the child was some spirit that came to ease Makarov’s transition from life into death. Maybe the child was a guardian of purgatory or limbo. Maybe they were an angel.

Part of Makarov’s mind wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that some spirit or angel helped him here so that he could ease into his existence in the afterlife. Another part of him told him he was being ridiculous. Told him that the child from before wasn’t a spirit or an angel or some guardian, that they were just that: a child. Told him that he wasn’t in the afterlife, that he wasn’t in Heaven or Hell or limbo or purgatory. Part of him told him that he wasn’t dead; instead, by some miracle, by some extraordinary act of God or fate or whatever the hell it was that lead him here, Makarov was still alive.

_How._

Makarov closed his eyes again, drawing a deep breath. He started to move his limbs, stretching out his legs until his shoes hit something wooden with a light  _thump_. The desk; they hit the end of the desk that the child had guided him under. One of Makarov’s hands reached out and brushed against something hard; a wall. Slowly, he shifted onto his other side, opening his eyes again. He reached forward, his fingers pressing against something thick that moved with his touch: fabric. Thick, heavy, like curtains.

There was the sound of fabric rustling, the sound of knees scraping against a floor. The fabric Makarov had been touching shifted, then was pushed completely out of the way, the tips of his fingers meeting empty air. There was no light, but Makarov did feel a presence, the feeling followed by the sensation of something small and warm brushing against, then gently grasping his outstretched hand.

“Mister?” a voice whispered. It was the child’s. “Are you awake?”

Makarov didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t want to say anything to begin with; instead, he simply pulled his hand from the child’s grasp and pressed it against his chest, his eyes sliding shut again. He couldn’t see a damn thing; there wasn’t a dim light like before to aid his sight. The world around him was completely dark; whatever the source of light had been before, it was gone now.

There was a moment of silence before the sound of rustling fabric and scraping knees returned. Makarov reached out, and once again felt the pressure of heavy fabric against his gloves. The child was gone, returned to whatever dark corner they had come from. That suited Makarov just fine; they may have brought him here, but he didn’t owe them his words. Unless they had answers, unless they knew whether Makarov was dead or alive, the child was of no use to him.

_Maybe they do know. It’s most likely._

Makarov frowned. That thought, despite coming a little late, rang true, and in that case, the child’s presence would be useful; still, he wasn’t about to ask this child if they were a mortal or a spirit. Not yet, anyway.

There was the sound of something clinging, like metal colliding with metal, and then a loud creak, as if a door were swinging open on hinges that badly needed oiling. There was a deep tapping, like the sound of heels against wood, and another voice.

“Hello?” This voice didn’t belong to the child. It was adult, mature, yet gentle. A woman’s. Makarov remained still, simply listening; perhaps he could learn where he was that way.

“Good morning!” It was the child’s voice this time, followed by the sound of lighter tapping; flat-footed shoes, maybe. The footsteps weren’t soft enough to be made by someone barefooted or wearing socks. The child was walking away from the desk, now ignoring Makarov’s presence.

“How did you sleep? Oh, the candles! You let them burn all the way down!”

“There was a painting I wanted to finish. Pears and bread this morning? And milk?”

“Yes, we had some extra fruit this morning, so you get two pears instead of one. I’ll fetch you some more candles, alright? Bring me the candleholder.”

There was the sound of running footsteps approaching the desk, then footsteps heading away to the far end of the room. After a lowly uttered thank you and the sound of heels against hardwood, there was the creak of door hinges again and the sound of a door being shut, the woman leaving to replace the candles that had apparently burned out. So that had been the source of light before, and perhaps the source of the child’s worry as well; without the light of the candles, even without the fabric blocking his view, Makarov couldn’t see anything, and the child wouldn’t have been able to see anything, either.

There was a clink as a glass was set down on wood above Makarov’s head, followed by a few dull thuds—the pears, probably. He wouldn’t have heard the bread. The child was receiving a meal; breakfast, as indicated by the child’s greeting earlier. How much time had passed between when Makarov had initially woken up and now?

There was the rustling of fabric again as the heavy fabric was pushed out of the way. There was a light tapping as if someone’s hand was patting the floorboards. Makarov reached out, his fingers finding the back of a smaller hand; it was the child again. The child immediately gripped Makarov’s hand, gently squeezing.

“Are you awake now?” the child whispered.

“Yes.” Makarov was almost surprised at how hoarse and weak his voice sounded. Almost.

“Good.” The child squeezed his hand tighter. “Just stay here, Mister, and please stay quiet like before. I’ll tell you when it’s okay to talk, alright?”

“Fine.” Makarov pulled his hand from the child’s grasp again, and he heard fabric rustle as the child left once more.

A few more minutes of silence passed, and then the door opened again, the sound of heels on hardwood returning. There was the sound of flat-footed shoes against hardwood as the child walked away from the desk and up to the source of the high-heeled tapping; the woman was back, finally, presumably with the candles she had promised.

“What’s this you’ve done with the curtains?” the woman asked. Makarov briefly held his breath, wondering what the child’s response would be.

“I just…wanted somewhere a bit more private to sleep,” the child muttered after a moment’s hesitation. “Someplace safer, you know?”

“This room is rather private already, don’t you think?”

“I wanted something  _more_  private.”

“Alright, alright. Enjoy your breakfast, okay? Good day.” Heels again, then a creak, then a door closing. Then, finally, silence once again.

The child walked back to where the desk was, pausing a moment to place down the candleholder, Makarov assumed. He was right; his assumption was quickly followed by the sound of something metal tapping against the floorboards, the child letting out a relieved sigh. A few moments of silence passed, and then the child walked up to the desk. There were another few heartbeats where Makarov heard nothing, and then there was the rustle of fabric again, and suddenly, there was light.

It wasn’t bright light, but it was enough for Makarov to see. A small hand was holding the fabric—thick, red curtains—out of the way, and through the opening, a face peered through at Makarov. The child. She was a girl, her face small and round with baby fat and framed by dark brown hair that hung just past her jawline, her eyes big and round and a deep, dark brown. She blinked at Makarov, then smiled, the expression warm and genuine.

She reached towards Makarov. In her outstretched palm sat a pear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddd I'm sorry everyone, this took so long. [sweats] Hopefully I still have an audience lmao.  
> I can't make any promises as to how soon Chapter 12 will be coming out, but I can promise you that it will come out! I'm not giving up on this fic; I'm in way too deep now.  
> Thank you for sticking with me this far~! There's still a long way to go, but I'm determined to see it all the way through!
> 
> (Thanks to rainbirdblue on Tumblr for helping me with the Russian; I speak almost none of it, haha!)  
> (Thanks to all my friends on AO3, Tumblr, and in my personal life for their encouragement and support, and thanks to everyone who's left kudos and comments so far!)
> 
> For progress updates on Call of Honor, or if you have any questions, feel free to pop by my tumblr!  
> http://callofhonorblog.tumblr.com/
> 
> EDIT: As always this remains my best chapter yet
> 
> I literally changed one word


	12. Weepers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Hi! I'm so sorry for the wait for Chapter 12, but it's finally here! Now that school's out I should have more time to work on Call of Honor between other projects, so hopefully more updates will be coming soon!~~
> 
> ~~Before you read this chapter, if you haven't already, I suggest that you go back and read from the beginning again! I've edited the previously updated chapters, updating them to my current writing styles and fixing as many mistakes as I saw (as well as adding stuff that I missed), so be sure to check it out!~~
> 
> Original Publication Date: 06/10/17  
> Minor Edits Made: 09/01/17; 12/06/17

"They're hiding something from us."

Soap glanced up from where he doodled in his journal, watching as Corvo paced back and forth, tossing an uneaten pear between his hands. It was late morning in Dunwall, five days after the assassination of High Overseer Campbell and the seizure of his Black Book. Soap and Corvo had taken their breakfast on the roof of the Hound Pits, where they could eat and relax in relative peace while they waited for something to happen. At least, Soap was relaxing, seated quietly on the metal stairs leading back to the attic; Corvo, on the other hand, restlessly paced the roof, his breakfast long forgotten as he—up until moments ago—silently ruminated. Unfortunately for Soap, the smell of Corvo's abandoned jellied eels on toast was starting to attract flies.

"The Loyalists?" Soap asked, waving away a fly that wandered too close to his own half-eaten toast. The Loyalist trio had been cooped up in Admiral Havelock's quarters for days now, hard at work decoding the contents of Campbell's journal, searching for any secrets that could aid in the conspiracy's endeavor—including the location of Emily Kaldwin. That last bit was something that Corvo had been waiting for since they day Emily went missing, and now that the Loyalists figuratively and literally had her location right in their hands, Corvo's agitation grew the longer they remained silent.

"Yes. They know something and they're hiding it." Corvo's jaw tightened as he turned and strode towards the balcony, facing the Wrenhaven. "I can feel it."

Soap pursed his lips, tapping his pen against his open journal. "If they're hiding something," he stated, carefully watching Corvo's reaction, "then there's a reason for it. I'm sure that if there wasn't any good reason, the Admiral already would've had you act on...whatever it is you think they have."

Corvo stopped his pacing to turn and face Soap, looking particularly unimpressed. "Was that supposed to help?"

"What? You know I'm right." As Corvo huffed and began to pace again, Soap took a moment to pause and take a bite from his toast. The salty taste of jellied eels still lingered, much to Soap's dismay. He wrinkled his nose and took his time chewing. "The Admiral knows the risks - he wouldn't be hiding Emily's location unless he had a very good reason," he said around his mouthful of toast. "That's what this is about, right?"

Corvo scoffed. "How did you guess?" he mumbled dryly. He then sighed, once again approaching the balcony and pausing there, leaning against the railing and tossing his pear up and down in one hand. Corvo fell silent once more, and Soap took that as his cue to return to his doodling, hunched over his journal—which was balanced in his lap—with his pen in one hand and his toast in the other.

Soap searched for where he'd left off, the unfinished sketch of Martin staring up at him. Soap had taken to sketching the residents of the Hound Pits, inked portraits interspersed among his written journal entries. Drawing had been a hobby of his since he was a child, and it was something that helped him passed the time—it gave his hands something to do, gave him a way to remember faces and locations. His old journal was full of drawings, and Soap intended to fill this one with art, too.

Finding the point where he'd stopped, Soap pressed the tip of the pen in the paper, starting the process of sketching out some of the finer details. The linework was quickly ruined as Soap winced when, out of nowhere, Corvo's raised voice rang out.

"If the Admiral knows where she is, what's so pressing that he has to hide that information from me? What could he possibly gain from that?" Soap pursed his lips and sighed sharply through his nose, then glanced up at Corvo. He was now upright and pacing again, still tossing around his pear.

"You know, if he really knows where she is, don't you think he would've sent us to fetch her already?" Soap questioned, the words riding out on a sigh. "The longer we wait, the more likely that she'll be moved, and then we'd be back to square one."

"I know, Soap, I just..." Corvo pinched the bridge of his nose, brows knitting together, as he hissed through his teeth. "I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong." Corvo paused, and then he let out a low, frustrated cry, turning sharply on his heel. "No, he's keeping something from me. Something is off."

"Well, whatever it is, you won't find out by wearing a bloody hole in the concrete," Soap quipped, earning another unimpressed look from his companion. "Now, will you come finish your damn food already? Or throw it out. It's attracting flies."

Rolling his eyes, Corvo gave in and approached the stairs where Soap sat, huffing as Soap waved away flies and scooted over to give him some space. Holding his pear in one hand, Corvo bent over and picked up his plate with the other. He moved to sit down, then paused, his eyebrows raising as he took a good look at the food before him.

"...Did I have this many jellied eels before?" Corvo asked, shooting a look in Soap's direction, spotting the suspiciously eel-free toast in his hand. Soap grinned, shrugged, and looked back down at his journal, but not before he caught another roll of Corvo's eyes. Corvo sat down beside Soap and balanced the plate on his thighs. Pushing around bits of eel with his fingers, Corvo raised the pear in his hand to his lips.

There was a creak as the attic door was pushed open, and Soap looked up at the sudden noise, while Corvo remained still. Someone—Callista, Soap quickly realized—stepped through the doorway, looking around briefly before her eyes fell on Soap and Corvo.

"Ah, there you are!" she said, reaching up and tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "Admiral Havelock and Lord Pendleton wanted you two. They're down in the front yard."

"So much for breakfast," Soap muttered, looking back at Corvo, who was still frozen with the pear still held up to his mouth, teeth just barely grazing the fruit's skin. Corvo started straight ahead, one brow raised and face and shoulders slumped as he let out a defeated sigh. He didn't react when Soap grinned and reached over, tapping his shoulder with his knuckles, pen still in hand. "Come on, mate, let's go." Soap closed his journal and, gathering his things, stood and turned to walk up the stairs, still nibbling on his toast. Corvo, after a few moments, stood as well, his plate in one hand and his uneaten pear in the other as he followed Soap and Callista inside.

 

* * *

 

"Ah, there you are," Admiral Havelock called out, waving Soap and Corvo over as he saw them enter the front yard. He stood by a half-wall near the pub, with Lord Pendleton—who was already nursing the small silver flask that never seemed to leave his hand—standing only a meter or so to his right. "Over here."

Soap and Corvo exchanged glances, then silently crossed the courtyard side by side, approaching the Admiral. Whatever this was about, Soap figured, he doubted it was about Emily—or anything in the Black Book, for that matter. Corvo must've had the same assumption; Soap heard him sigh, the annoyance practically rolling off him in waves.

"What's this about, Admiral?" Corvo demanded as he drew closer, stopping in front of the Admiral and placing his hands on his hips. He did little to hide his irritation, lips pursed as he waited for an explanation. Soap stopped beside him and gave Corvo a sideways glance, one brow raised. "Do you have any information pertaining to Emily?"

The Admiral, too, raised a brow at Corvo's sharp tone, his arms folding across his chest. "Straight to the point, are we?" he mumbled, glancing at Lord Pendleton, who silently shrugged and took a swig from his flask before tucking it back into his coat. "In any case," Havelock continued, "this isn't about Emily. Have some patience."

"With all due respect," Corvo began sharply, "that doesn't answer—"

"What's it about, then?" Soap interrupted, giving Corvo another sideways glance. His ears burned as he met Corvo's glare. Soap forced himself to keep a straight face, looking back at the Admiral and trying to ignore the way Corvo was trying to burn a hole through his skull with his eyes.

Havelock looked between Soap and Corvo, his jaw tightening briefly. His patience was thin, Soap realized, thinner than Corvo's; he didn't like being questioned.

"One of the servants informed me that they'd heard something last night," the Admiral explained after a few moments of silence, unfolding his arms and clasping them behind his back. "Whatever it was," he continued, "it was moving in the storm drains beneath the building."

"Is it the City Watch?" Soap asked.

"A weeper's more likely," Havelock responded, turning his head and looking down in the space behind the half wall beside him. Soap craned his neck, trying to follow Havelock's gaze, and saw that behind the half wall was a small set of stairs. Where they led to, he couldn't see; if Soap assumed correctly, they probably led down to the storm drains. "Poor bastard."

 _A weeper?_  Soap remembered Corvo's explanation of weepers on his first day at the Hound Pits.  _That's what's down there?_

"There's no hope for them when the plague gets that far," Havelock said with a shake of his head. "Nothing but a shuffling corpse full of sickness and insects, if you'd ask me. I'd send a servant down there to investigate—" He looked pointedly between Soap and Corvo. "—But they'd die of fear on the spot, I'm afraid."

"So this is what you're wasting our time with, Admiral?" Corvo hissed. Havelock gave him a hard stare, lips pursed. "A  _weeper_  in the sewers?"

"I need you two to make sure that it is a weeper, and not some nosy guardsman getting too close," Havelock responded, an edge to voice. "And if it is a weeper, it must be taken care of." Narrowing his eyes, the Admiral added, "You  _do_  realize what would happen if the plague were to spread here, don't you, Corvo?"

Soap glanced at Corvo, almost afraid of the reaction he'd see. Corvo was pointedly looking away from the Admiral, glaring at the wall behind him, lip twitching in the beginnings of an irritated sneer. Soap chewed on the inside of his lip. He knew that Corvo's patience was wearing thinner and thinner with each passing day, and his suspicion that Havelock knew something that he wasn't letting on wasn't helping matters in the slightest. But the Admiral's patience was thin as well, and easily broken, by the looks of it.

Lord Pendleton cleared his throat, breaking the silence, and stepped closer to Havelock. "Admiral," he muttered, leaning in close. "Give them the key."

"...Right," Havelock grumbled after a moment of hesitation, reaching into his pocket and digging something out of it. "Corvo," he said firmly, his expression unchanging as Corvo turned his cold gaze on him, "Here's the key to the hatches." He pulled the key from his pocket and held it out at Corvo, who hesitated before snatching it from the Admiral and stuffing it into his own pocket. "You two should see Piero before going down there. He should have some elixir for you, and it'd be a good idea to check over your weapons."

Corvo drew a breath as if to say something else, then released it in a sigh. "Fine," he mumbled, turning on his heel and pointedly bumping into Soap's shoulder. "Let's go get that elixir, then."

Soap watched Corvo walk off, then looked back at the Admiral. Havelock stared after Corvo as he departed, his lips still pressed into a thin line and his pale eyes still as hard as stone. His gaze shifted to Soap, and he crossed his arms over his chest, raising a brow.

"He's worried about Emily, sir," Soap explained in the hopes that Havelock would understand. His expression didn't change. "All this time with no news and no action has been putting him on edge."

"I can see that," Lord Pendleton remarked, digging his flask back out of his coat. Soap tilted his head at him. The lord was a tall, wiry man, with a face that reminded Soap of some sort of rodent—a rat, perhaps. Pendleton took a long drink from his flask before adding, "Did you see the way he looked at you, Admiral? He looked seconds away from mutiny."

"Yes, Treavor, I saw," Havelock sighed, his expression shifting into one of exasperation. "He was standing right in front of me."

Soap opened his mouth to speak when Corvo's voice rang from the other side of the courtyard. "Soap!" he barked, and Soap turned around to face the direction of Corvo's voice. "Are you coming or what?"

"Coming!" Soap called out in response. He turned to briefly nod at Havelock and Pendleton, muttering a low "excuse me" before jogging after Corvo, who waited impatiently at the end of the courtyard, a thick air of irritation hanging around him.

"What the hell was that?" Soap hissed once he was close enough to hear, a flash of annoyance shooting through him when Corvo silently turned away and started for Piero's workshop. He reached for Corvo's shoulder, intending to stop him and make him at least give some sort of response. "Corvo—"

Corvo grumbled profanity in Serkonan and Soap took that as his cue to shut up, grinding his teeth together and shoving his hand in his pocket as he followed Corvo the rest of the way to the workshop. He understood Corvo's stress—as much as anyone could, at least—but he'd mouthed off to the Admiral, and everything in Soap screamed that it was a  _bad fucking idea_. Despite his role in the conspiracy, Corvo was still very much under the Admiral's mercy—he could've been brought here as their prisoner and forced to cooperate at gunpoint if Havelock had been so inclined—and the last thing the conspiracy needed was its two most important members butting heads.

"Piero," Corvo called out when they had reached the threshold of the workshop, stopping just beyond it. Piero himself was on the lower floor, his back turned to them as he was hunched over a workbench, fiddling with something or other that Soap couldn't begin to identify. He turned when he heard his name called, blinking owlishly from behind his round glasses. Piero had gotten over what had occurred between him and Soap a few days before, and when he saw Soap, his lips twitched upwards in a small smile.

"Good morning," he greeted in his usual slow way of speaking. "What can I get you two?"

"We're going down to the storm drains," Corvo said shortly. "Have you got any elixir?

Piero frowned, humming to himself as he rubbed his hands together. "I believe I have some left, somewhere," he mumbled, and the engineer turned on his heel, striding up to the metal staircase leading up to his quarters. "Wait here, I'll bring it down for you."

Soap watched Piero disappear up the stairs, then turned to Corvo, who stood with his arms crossed and a hard look on his face, jaw clenching as he ground his teeth. "Corvo..."

"He's stalling," Corvo grumbled, reaching up and tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. "I know he knows something, Soap." Brows knitted together, he turned to meet Soap's gaze. "I can feel it."

"Aye, well, that doesn't mean you can go mouthing off to him!" Soap snapped, and Corvo rolled his eyes and looked away, scowling at the far wall. Soap huffed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He paused, thinking a moment, before looking back up at Corvo. "How do you figure?"

Corvo was silent for a few seconds, his scowl only deepening as he searched for an answer. With a grunt, he placed his hands on his hips, looking at the stairs instead of at Soap. Soap pursed his lips. "Don't you think he would've told me if he didn't have anything on Emily yet?" Corvo turned his head again and Soap saw him look at him through the corner of his eye. "He didn't say he didn't have information on Emily. Do you know what he said?"

Soap sighed. "He said—"

"He said, 'have patience.'  _'Have patience,'_  Soap, he  _has_  to be hiding something."

Soap groaned, rubbing at his temple. "That could mean anything, Corvo," he grumbled. "Literally. I know you're concerned but don't you think you're looking a bit too far into this?"

Corvo whipped around to face Soap, his brows arched. "Am I—"

"Here it is, gentlemen!" Piero's voice called from the staircase, followed by the sound of him treading down the metal stairs. Corvo and Soap turned in time to see Piero step down onto the ground floor, holding two vials of bright blue liquid, one in each hand. "A vial of Piero's Spiritual Remedy for each of you." He walked up to the two men and held out the vials expectantly; murmuring their thanks, Soap and Corvo took their portions. Soap glanced up at Corvo through the corner of his eye and saw that Corvo was watching him similarly. "I used the last of my ingredients to make today's rations. Corvo, if you could, please remind the Admiral to help me procure more."

"I thought you were on your own for that?" Corvo mumbled, opening the vial and peering inside. Satisfied, he started to drink from it, making a face as the liquid hit his tongue. Soap turned the vial over in his hands, trying to figure out how to open it— _these stupid things are always hard to open_ —before finding the top and wrestling it off. He sniffed at the elixir, his nose wrinkling at the sickly-sweet smell. It reminded him of children's medicine. Deciding that he'd rather get it over with, Soap drank a mouthful, trying not to gag at the taste and the slimy way it went down. It was far sweeter than it smelled.

Piero sniffed and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I'm not sure if the Admiral truly realizes it, but I'm wholly dependent on him when it comes to supplies. Where else am I going to get the money?"

"The black market?" Corvo suggested, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He pointed over Piero's shoulder, towards the contraption he'd left on the workbench. "You could always sell that thing for scraps."

Piero stepped back, appalled. "Or I could, perhaps, not do that."

"I'll tell him for you, Piero," Soap put in after choking down the first mouthful of elixir, scowling down at the remnants of the vial. "...Do I need to drink all of this before going down there?"

"All of it," Corvo confirmed. "If we're dealing with weepers, we need all the protection we can get."

"Weepers?" Piero blinked. "There are weepers in the storm drains?"

Corvo shrugged, pausing to take another swig from his vial. "The Admiral seems to think so."

"Well, you can't go down there unprotected! Let me fetch some face coverings—"

Corvo quickly lowered his vial. "Wait, Piero, that isn't necessary—"

But it was too late; Piero had already turned tail and run back up the stairs. Soap and Corvo exchanged an exasperated look and walked further into the workshop. There was a desk by the staircase, and at it a chair; Corvo took a seat there, tossing back the last of his elixir and setting the empty vial on the desk. Soap struggled to sip at his, trying to ignore the way Corvo smirked at the faces he was involuntarily making.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Soap lowered the vial long enough to scowl at Corvo, figuring his expression would suffice as a response. Corvo snickered and Soap went back to drinking his elixir; he was getting closer and closer to the bottom, thankfully.

Piero returned from the upper level, holding something in his hands; two somethings, Soap noticed. They were white face masks, like medical masks, just large enough to cover the nose and mouth while leaving the upper half of the face exposed. Piero handed one to Corvo first before approaching Soap.

"It's suspected that the plague is capable of travelling through the air," Piero explained, pressing the mask into Soap's free hand. "We're not quite sure, but it's better to be safe than sorry. And if there are weepers down there, be sure to keep your distance." Piero wrinkled his nose. "They may still be alive, but in the later stages they tend to attract flies."

Soap felt a surge of nausea and wasn't sure if it was because of the elixir he was drinking or the mental image of fly-infested weepers that shuffled across his mind's eye.

"I've never seen one up close," Corvo admitted, "so I wouldn't know. I'm assuming you have, Piero?"

Piero shook his head. "Not alive, at least. I have studied their blood once, however; fascinating, truly. The plague is an elegant creature." Corvo and Soap exchanged another look. "Which brings up the question..." Piero turned to Corvo, clasping his hands together. "Corvo, if whatever's down there turns out to indeed be a weeper, I have a great favor to ask of you."

Soap had a creeping suspicion of what Piero's request was going to be; apparently, so did Corvo, judging from the way he sighed and leaned back into his seat. "Go on," Corvo mumbled, and Piero's eyes brightened.

"If you would be so kind as to not kill the weeper, I would be greatly indebted to you," Piero explained, either not noticing or ignoring the way Corvo's lip curled in disgust. "A live specimen would give me a great chance to study the disease and alter my remedy to be much more effective."

"If you expect us to bring it up here..."

"Oh, heavens, no! Just neutralize it and leave it in the storm drains, and I'll bring my tools down there." Piero peered at Corvo. "You can utilize the sleep poison I provided you."

Corvo closed his eyes, reaching up and rubbing his temple as he thought. Soap looked down at his vial, swishing around the last of his elixir before tossing it back, grimacing at the taste. He didn't think Piero's idea was a good one; he could wind up bringing the plague to the Hound Pits and getting everyone sick, and Soap wasn't sure if the opportunity to study a life weeper was worth the risk of potentially infecting everyone with a deadly, incurable disease.

"I'll think about it," was Corvo's answer; Piero seemed to be satisfied, as he clapped his hands together with a broad smile.

"Excellent! Thank you so much, Corvo."

Corvo sighed and stood up, leaving his discarded vial of elixir on the desk. "I never said I'd  _do_  it, just that I'd  _think_  about it," he clarified, stepping past Piero, who turned and watched him as he walked towards the exit. "Soap, you go wait by the hatches. I'm going to fetch my weapons."

 

* * *

 

"So, do you really think there's a weeper down there?"

Corvo scoffed crouching down beside the hatches leading to the storm drains below, searching for a keyhole. Havelock and Pendleton were nowhere to be seen; most likely returned to their work, still busy with the Black Book. "It's possible," he replied, voice muffled by the white mask covering his face and nose. He paused to reach up and tug at the straps. "It's certainly more likely than a guardsman, at least. This place isn't far from the Flooded District, and weepers tend to wander from there if they don't drop dead fast enough."

Soap watched as Corvo found the lock and pulled out his key, sliding it into the slot. "Has one ever come this far?"

"Not while I was here." Corvo unlocked the hatches and reached for a turn wheel in one of the corners. "One of the servants told me that one wandered up here a few months ago, however. On street level." The wheel in Corvo's hands stubbornly stayed in place and Corvo grunted as he pulled harder. "The Admiral—ugh, damn it, why won't this thing open—the Admiral shot it and had it thrown in the river before it could get too close."

"Christ."

"You keep saying that word, 'Christ.' What does it mean?"

Soap blinked. "...He's a religious figure where I come from. Long story."

"Ah." Corvo gave one final yank on the turn wheel and finally it yielded, turning freely with a resounding creak. Soap reached up and adjusted the mask on his face, the rough material scratching lightly at his nose. A dusty odor clung to the mask—Soap assumed it had been sitting out for quite some time. Deciding that this mask was as comfortable as it could be, he sighed and watched Corvo open the hatches the rest of the way, his hand coming to rest on the pistol loaned to him by Corvo. Corvo had given it to him knowing that Soap's M1911 had almost no ammo, and now the weapon was strapped across his chest, attached to some sort of holster that Soap could just tear the gun off of in a pinch. Despite being a sidearm, the pistol was much bigger than his M1911, and it carried fewer bullets in each magazine. It would have to take some adjustment for Soap to be able to wield it properly, but he hoped wouldn't need it at all. Corvo, meanwhile, had his crossbow, which hung from his belt along with two pouches; Soap assumed that one contained bolts, and the other sleep darts.

"Anyway," Soap continued, "Are you really planning on leaving it alive? How long does that sleep poison even last?"

"An hour," Corvo answered, standing once the hatches were open wide enough. "Approximately. It would give Piero plenty of time to at least start his research, and he has more of that poison he can use when he needs it." Corvo's mask shifted as he scowled. "Let's just hope he has the foresight to kill it when he's done."

"You really think it's worth it?"

Corvo shrugged. "If Piero thinks that he can make some sort of discovery that will help him improve his treatments, then yes," he answered, turning to look at Soap, his brows knitted together. "I'd say it's worth the risk." He gestured towards the open hatch. "Ready?"

Soap hummed, adjusting his mask again. He wasn't sure if it would provide any real protection against the plague, but wearing it gave him some semblance of comfort. Whatever was down there, at least he and Corvo could deal with it from a distance, either way.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Good. I'll go first." With that, Corvo turned his back on Soap and jumped down the opening; Soap could hear a grunt and a metallic thud. Drawing a deep breath, Soap gathered his bearings, then jumped down after him.

With a low oof, Soap landed on a metal walkway, landing in a crouch and quickly standing to orient himself. He'd entered an access tunnel, the brick walls lined with moss and mold and the air thick with moisture and the smell of something rotting. Soap wrinkled his nose as the stench attacked his senses, squinting in the dim light of the tunnel and letting his eyes adjust as Corvo went to work at closing the hatches above them, utilizing another turn wheel fixed to the wall. Dim, flickering lights protruded from the tunnel walls, aiding Soap's vision; he could see that the tunnel turned off to the right several meters down, its end out of sight. Soap couldn't hear anything except for his own breathing and the shrill creaking of the wheel as Corvo turned it, the hatch above them groaning as it was shut.

"It smells like something died down here," Soap grumbled, his voice echoing along the tunnel. He tugged at his mask, already feeling smothered. Soap was thankful that he was down here in the winter rather than in the summer; he didn't want to imagine how humid and hot this tunnel got in the hotter months. He turned to look behind him and his gaze was immediately met with a wall two meters from where he stood—there was only one way forward, it seemed.

Corvo grunted in response, stepping beside Soap and simply standing there, his hand resting on his crossbow. Soap looked at him, one brow raised, and saw that Corvo seemed to be staring off into the distance; probably doing his weird sight thing like he did on their mission a few nights before.

Soap scoffed, moving in front of Corvo with his arms crossed. "Oi, Corvo, there's only one way forward." When Corvo didn't respond, Soap waved his hand in front of Corvo's face, frowning when Corvo's eyes didn't follow the movement. "Hel—"

The words became stuck in his throat when Corvo blinked and, suddenly, his eyes were as black as ink, irises and sclera alike swallowed in ebony. Soap winced and jerked his hand back, taking a step back and giving Corvo more room. He looked down, and saw that while Corvo's mark wasn't glowing, something about it seemed...off, like it was giving off a strange aura. Soap wasn't sure if it was actually there or some trick of the light.

Corvo blinked and his eyes went back to normal as quickly as they'd become completely black, his hand coming to rest on the handle of his crossbow. "Let's go," he said, taking a step forward, but he paused when he saw that Soap wasn't moving. He met Soap's wide-eyed stare with both brows raised. "What?"

"Your eyes."

Corvo tilted his head. "What about them?"

Soap stared silently for a few more moments before shaking his head, turning to face the other end of the tunnel. "Nothing," he mumbled, "I must've been seeing things." He started down the tunnel, the metal walkway ringing with each footfall, and a few seconds passed before he heard Corvo follow him.

"I didn't see anything around the corner," Corvo explained, his voice low and muffled by the mask as he fell into step beside Soap. "My void-sight can only go so far. But I can feel a presence down here."

 _Great._  Soap nodded silently as he and Corvo rounded the tunnel corner. A few meters down was another corner, and once they turned it, they suddenly found themselves in a much wider tunnel, the ceiling stretching slightly higher above them. They now stood on a concrete walkway, and beside them was a shallow body of murky water, filled with rubbish that had washed down from the streets. The tunnel itself went two ways, stretching much further down into a curve as well as breaking away into a second opening, the ending of which Soap couldn't see save for the natural light spilled from that direction. He could smell the river. Down the main path, the tunnel curved left, then right again, its end out of sight.

Soap had barely a chance to take another step forward when Corvo's hand shot out and tightly grasped his arm, Soap whipping around to face him. He drew a breath to speak but was interrupted by Corvo lifting his finger in a "silence" gesture, then moving his hand beside his ear. Understanding what Corvo meant, Soap listened closely, his gaze wandering around as he tried to hear whatever it was Corvo wanted him to listen for, one brow raised.

At first there was nothing, just the sounds of the river and the cries of gulls coming from the outside. Then, Soap heard it; a low cough, echoing through the tunnels somewhere in the distance. Soap looked up at Corvo, his brows furrowing. He pulled down his mask to mouth at Corvo:

_"A weeper?"_

Corvo nodded, and Soap replaced his mask, fitting it as tightly as he could against his nose. Corvo gestured for Soap to follow and took the lead down the tunnel, pulling his crossbow off his belt and digging through one of his ammo pouches as he went. Soap trailed a few paces behind, his hand coming to rest on the grip of Corvo's pistol. He could hear more coughing as they crept down the tunnel, then a groan, reverberating through the brick-walled sewers.

There was a brief section where the concrete walkway dropped off into shallow water before floor returned and the tunnel curved to the right and, Soap assumed, continued straight forward, still unable to see its end from his position. Corvo stepped into the water without hesitation; it came to about halfway up his shins and, unbothered mostly due to his tall boots, waded forward as carefully as he could, taking care to make as little noise as possible in the water. Soap stopped at the edge of the concrete walkway, crinkling his nose down at the water. He could barely see the bottom through all the filth, and he wasn't too thrilled to jump in with his much shorter boots. But it was either get the gross water in his socks or wade in there completely barefoot, and so reluctantly, Soap stepped in, trying not to let the cold water that soaked into his boots and pants bother him too much.

Corvo stopped just before the point where the tunnel veered off to the right, out of sight of whatever might be down there as he pressed his back against the wall. Soap stood near him, not pressed to the wall but far enough away so that he wouldn't be seen by whatever—or, rather, whoever—was down there. The coughing and moaning had grown louder, and was joined by another set of coughs.  _Shite._  There were two.

Corvo gestured for Soap to wait, and then carefully turned and peered around the corner. He quickly turned back around and pressed back up against the wall, pulling something out of one of his ammo pouches—a sleep dart—and loading it into the saddle of his crossbow.

"There are two," Corvo whispered, his voice just barely audible. "One of them went into an access tunnel, the other is in the open. I'll take care of the one outside, and the noise of her fall should draw the other one out." Corvo looked at Soap. "When he comes out, shoot him."

Soap nodded, pulling the pistol off his chest and checking the ammo. It was fully loaded—two bullets.

_Guess I'm ready._

Corvo counted down with his fingers, then stepped out from his hiding spot, turning around and levelling his crossbow at his first target. He pulled the trigger and the sleep dart flew free with a snap; there was a cry, and the sound of a dull thud as a body hit the concrete.

_"Now!"_

Corvo stepped out of the way and Soap rushed forward, turning the corner and resting his finger on the trigger just in time to see a human form step out from some unseen tunnel, turning in Soap's direction.

Soap froze at the sight, his limbs going stiff as though an electric shock had passed through him. The man who'd appeared was pale, so pale he was almost grey, stumbling forward and hunched forward as if he barely had the strength to hold himself up. His mouth hung open as he groaned, and from this distance Soap could see filth caked along his face and down the front of his brown jacket, almost everything stained brown. Flies buzzed around his face, but he didn't seem to care, shuffling in Soap's direction with another loud groan. The weeper's ashen face was streaked with blood, old and fresh, caked along his cheeks and trickling freely from his eyes. His mouth hung open wider, and he let forth a cry—

_"Soap, NOW!"_

Soap squeezed the trigger without thinking, the recoil sending a shockwave up his arms and chattering his teeth. The first shot missed the weeper entirely, hitting the brick wall on the far side of the tunnel and ricocheting into the water. Soap drew a deep breath and forced his trembling hand to steady, taking aim once more and firing his last bullet. This time, the weeper went down, blood pouring from a hole in his chest as he flew back and landed on the concrete. He gurgled, twitched, and then went still, finally going limp after what felt like ages.

Soap jumped as Corvo's hand clapped down on his shoulder, his grasp firm. "What were you thinking?!" Corvo hissed, and Soap, not bothering to look at him, shook his head, pulling himself free from Corvo's grip. “What the hell were you waiting for?”

"It's nothing," he mumbled, though the way his heart still raced in his chest said otherwise. Corvo exhaled sharply, then stepped around Soap and up onto the concrete.

"Come along," Corvo ordered. "There should be a way up to the pub from here."

Corvo marched forward, and Soap stepped up onto the concrete after him, making a face at the way his socks squelched unpleasantly in his boots. Soap carefully holstered the gun again and followed Corvo down the tunnel. Corvo took a turn to the right and disappeared down another access tunnel, and Soap started to follow, before hesitating and looking back at where he'd killed the weeper.

The weeper's lifeless body was closer now, and Soap could hear the flies that buzzed wildly around his corpse. Soap could see now that the filth on the weeper's face and clothes consisted mainly of grime and bloody vomit, and the glazed eyes that stared blindly up at the ceiling were the reddest Soap had ever seen. Blood still came from the poor bastard's eyes, trickling along his grey face. Feeling a surge of nausea, Soap looked away, not bothering to look at the other weeper Corvo had neutralized as he followed him down the access tunnel.

 

* * *

 

Piero was still on the ground floor of his workshop when Corvo and Soap returned, still working on his contraption and mumbling to himself as he did so, pausing every few moments to scrawl some notes on a scrap piece of paper. He looked up when Soap rapped his knuckles on the metal threshold, quickly abandoning his work in favor of the two men entering his workspace.

"So?"

"There were two weepers down there," Corvo said, taking off his mask and tossing it on the nearest unoccupied workbench. "We killed one, but left the other alive for you. If you go down there now you should have an hour until she needs another dose of sleep poison."

Piero's eyes brightened and a wide smile spread across his face, the engineer clapping his hands together excitedly. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Thank you so much, Corvo! This is such a great opportunity—"

"Yes, well, be sure to exercise caution," Corvo sighed, turning to Soap as he, too, took off his mask and tossed it beside Corvo's.

Piero pushed his glasses up his nose. "Oh, but of course. You've left the way below unlocked, right?"

"Yes." Corvo pulled the key to the storm drains from his pocket and handed it over to Piero, who grabbed it from him and clutched it tightly on one hand. "Be sure to lock everything up when you're done, alright?"

"Of course, of course! Now, if you'll excuse me..." Piero turned and ran up the stairs to his quarters, shoving his key in his pocket, no doubt going to gather up his supplies.

Soap and Corvo looked at each other as Piero left, Soap raising a brow and Corvo simply shrugging. They both turned and started for the pub, Soap frowning as his socks were still drenched.

"You wouldn't happen to have any spare boots, do you?" Soap asked, groaning when he saw Corvo shake his head. "Great, now I'm gonna be walking around all day with sewer socks."

Corvo snickered. "Aren't you a soldier? Haven't you been in worse conditions before?"

"Aye, but when I'm not in the bloody field it's nice to have warm and dry feet," Soap retorted, scowling when Corvo laughed.

"I can ask the Admiral if he has another pair." Corvo peered down at Soap's boots. "I think he might wear your size."

Soap grunted, letting Corvo open the door to the pub first and step through, trailing behind him. "So, which one of us is taking a bath first?"

"Neither of you." Martin's voice came from the bottom of the staircase, Soap and Corvo stopping and turning at the same to face him as he gestured for the two of them to follow. Exchanging glances, Soap and Corvo silently obeyed, following Martin as he turned and headed back up the stairs, leading them up to the second floor.

"What's this about?" Corvo asked as Martin led them down the corridor to Havelock's chambers. Martin remained silent, and Soap and Corvo exchanged another confused glance. The Overseer pushed open the door to the Admiral's chambers and stepped inside, waiting for Corvo and Soap to follow him in before closing the door behind them.

The windows were cracked open, letting in a breeze that chilled the room and carried the smell of the river. The Admiral himself was sitting at his desk, and Martin went to stand beside him, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding at Havelock. Havelock took one deep drag from a nearly-finished cigarette before extinguishing it, dropping it into an empty glass. On his desk there were papers strewn about, surrounding two notebooks filled to the brim with notes. One of them, Soap noticed, was Campbell's journal.

"Admiral," Corvo started. "What is this abou—"

"We know the location of Emily Kaldwin."

 

* * *

 

Makarov wasn't sure how much time had passed in this small room. He constantly slipped in and out of consciousness, only waking to nibble on the food that the child here shared with him, only taking as much as he could stomach. He was plagued by constant exhaustion, his limbs weighed down with fatigue long after the initial pain since his awakening passed. His lungs no longer burned as badly, though he still needed to hold back a cough every now and again, and while his body was still tired, the sharp pains had finally ebbed away into a dull ache that was much easier to cope with.

He rarely ever left his little shelter under the desk, despite the urging of the child whenever they were left alone. In fact, he didn't really leave at all, preferring to rest as much as he could, anchored to the musty mattress that he called his own. Now, however, Makarov found himself feeling restless, itching to move, to stretch his limbs and do  _something_  before he went mad from boredom. There was only so much he could do beyond torturing himself with thoughts of Dubai, and in the end, the desire to explore this new place took over and Makarov found himself pushing aside the curtain concealing him from the rest of the world, crawling out from under the desk.

He was weak, his body feeling the effects of hunger despite his stomach threatening to expel its contents whenever Makarov tried to eat. Emerging from the total darkness under the desk, Makarov blinked as his eyes adjusted to the low light in the room beyond; there was a single candleholder, holding a few fresh candles that now burned, giving off a soft light that barely reached into the far corners of the room. Makarov reached up and rubbed at his eyes before pulling himself further from beneath the desk, completely freeing himself and coming to rest against the nearest wall. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back until it hit the wall.

"Mister! You're awake!"

Makarov cracked one eye open, peering down in the direction of the voice. It was the little girl, sitting across from him, looking up from where she was hunched over something on the floor; a drawing, from the looks of it. She set aside whatever it was she was working on and scrambled up to him, kneeling beside Makarov and peering up at him with wide dark brown eyes. With the way Makarov was sitting and the way the girl crouched, she wasn't much shorter than he was.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, reaching for Makarov's arm before apparently thinking better of it and resting her hand on the floor instead. Makarov sighed, closing his eyes and splaying his legs out in front of him.

"Fine."

"That's good! Are you hungry? I saved the rest of your pear in case you're—"

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh."

Makarov and the child sat in silence for a while. Makarov pondered what to say, unsure if he really wanted to say anything at all. Despite all his thinking about the Hotel Oasis, he still had no idea how he possibly could have survived what he did, nor did he have any idea of how he could've wound up here, in some dark room with a little kid. If he'd survived after all, then the logical thing would for him to have woken up in... well, he didn't even know where he'd wake up, but certainly not in a place like this.

Not that he even knew what kind of place this was.

"...Child, where are we?"

The girl hummed. "The Golden Cat."

Makarov opened one eye and peered down at her, frowning. "And where is that?"

The girl smiled. "You don't know? We're in Dunwall."

"...Which is..."

The smiled faded and the girl blinked, her brows furrowing. "...In Gristol? The Empire?"

Both eyes were open this time, Makarov turning his head fully to face her. "What Empire?"

"How can you not know the Empire of the Isles?" The child shook her head. "That's the whole world!" She paused, thinking. "Well, except for Pandyssia..."

"Ah, whatever," Makarov growled, closing his eyes again and leaning back into the wall. The girl was speaking nonsense, he was sure; there were no places with the names that the girl had listed, and he didn't have the energy to demand an honest explanation. Maybe she was just as clueless as he was; Makarov hadn't heard her leave once during his waking hours, so it was safe to assume that she was just as trapped as him. But...

_She seems very sure of where we are._

"Mister? How did you get here?"

Makarov opened his eyes and looked at the girl from the corner of his eye. "I don't know."

"Why were you hurt?"

"That's not your concern."

"Oh." The girl frowned. "Well, then, where are you from? You sound like you're from Tyvia"— the girl laughed, rubbing the back of her neck—"but you can't possibly be from there if you don't even know what the Empire is..."

"...Russia."

"Where's that?"

"If you don't already know then that's not your concern, either."

The girl grinned. "You're not much of a talker, are you?" When Makarov just stared at her, the girl rubbed at her neck again, then reached up and started playing with her hair, looking deep in thought. After a few seconds she turned and crawled off, back to where she'd left the drawing she'd been working on. Makarov watched as she dug around in a pile of papers and quickly scurried back to where Makarov was sitting, clutching one of the papers carefully in one hand. She sat back down beside Makarov and sheepishly held the paper out to him, giving him a lopsided grin.

"To be honest, I knew you were coming," the child murmured, waving the paper as a gesture for Makarov to take it. He hesitated before doing so, carefully pulling the paper from her grasp. "Well, I didn't know until you were already here, but...I had dreams about you." The girl rested her hands in her lap, looking down. "I figured that you'd want that, now that you're here."

"...Uh-huh." Makarov closed his eyes and sighed before opening them again and looking down at the paper in his hands. He frowned, realizing it was blank, and flipped it over.

He didn't recognize what the drawing was supposed be at first—or, rather, who it was meant to be  _of._  The person in the drawing had brown skin, maybe a shade darker than his own, with wild pitch black hair and green and blue eyes—

_Green and blue—_

After a moment, it clicked. The eyes, one blue and the other green. The shape of his eyes and the angle of his cheekbone, unmistakably Slavic and Tatar in appearance. The face was painted a bit darker than his actual taupe complexion, but it was close enough. The hair, perhaps too dark compared to his natural shade of dark brown, was styled like his, too.

"...This is me."

Makarov looked down at the girl, whose grin had widened. "Yes! I kept seeing you in my dreams, and I just...had to draw you, I guess! I was drawing that when you arrived, and I finished it the next morning." A pause. "...Do you like it?"

Makarov looked back down at the drawing in his hands, frowning. After a few seconds, he sighed, laying the drawing down on his lap and tilting his head back again.

"...It's nice."

"Great! I'm glad you like it." The girl clasped her hands together and fell silent, watching Makarov as he turned his gaze on the ceiling.

Makarov didn't understand any of this. He had no idea where he was, stuck in a room with some little girl who claimed to have dreams about him, after experiencing something that should have been his death but inexplicably wasn't...Makarov couldn't even begin to come up with an explanation for any of this, couldn't even begin to make sense of it. Part of him wanted to crawl back under the desk and go to sleep—

"Mister, what's your name?"

Makarov gazed back down at the girl. "My name?" When she hummed in affirmation and nodded, Makarov sighed and answered, "Vladimir. Vladimir Makarov." He paused, then asked. "And yours?"

The girl blinked, then gave a wide, toothy smile.

"Emily."


	13. Found

"We know the location of Emily Kaldwin."

Silence immediately fell over the room as the words left Havelock's mouth. The Admiral sat up straight in his chair, running a hand over his jacket as he stared expectantly at Soap and Corvo, his gaze shifting between them. Soap blinked, unsure of what to say, and when he snuck a glance Corvo's way he saw that he, too, was at loss for words, his mouth hanging open as though everything he wanted to say was stuck on the tip of his tongue.

 _Looks like you were right after all, mate_. Soap knew better than to say it out loud, but the words hung in the air between them, even if Corvo didn't look his way.

The silence didn't stretch on for much longer before Corvo was finally able to break it. "Where?"

Havelock and Martin exchanged glances. Soap felt his stomach start to twist seeing how carefully composed their expressions were, as if they were preparing for a reaction from Corvo. Wherever Emily was being held wasn't going to be some sort of paradise where she and her captors played tic-tac-toe and drank milkshakes—Soap wouldn't expect any different. But judging from the way Havelock and Martin hesitated, whatever the situation was, wherever she was being held, it  _wasn't_  something Corvo would want to hear.

Martin sighed, reaching up and rubbing at his face with a gloved hand. "The Golden Cat, of all places," he finally answered, turning to look at the two men before him. "A bathhouse for aristocrats," he elaborated, "little better than a cursed brothel—"

"I'm aware." Soap almost winced at Corvo's voice; edged and dangerously low, he spoke in a forced monotone. "How long?"

Martin cleared his throat. If he was intimidated, he wasn't letting on, but it was clear that he was treading as carefully as he could. "She's been there for seven months now—"

" _No_ ," Corvo hissed. " _How long?_ "

Soap parted his lips as he drew a breath, then pressed them tightly together when he couldn't think of anything to say. He decided that, whatever it was, it was better to stay silent anyway. He shot a look Havelock's way; the Admiral wasn't letting anything on either, so whether he was afraid of Corvo's reaction, Soap couldn't really discern. Havelock leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands together as he looked Corvo in the eye.

"How long have we known?"

Soap saw Corvo nod out of the corner of his eye.

Havelock's cool gaze didn't waver. "That's none of your concern."

" _None o_ f my  _concern?_ " Corvo snapped, his voice rising sharply as he took a step forward. Soap shifted, preparing to intervene if needed. "My—The  _daughter of the Empress_ , the  _heir to the throne_ , has been held in a brothel for  _seven months_  and you've withheld this information from me for  _how long?_ " Corvo gestured wildly towards himself as he spat out, " _Me_ , her  _Lord Protector_?"

Soap chewed on the inside of his lip, watching the Admiral's reaction closely. Havelock raised his chin, his expression unchanging in the face of Corvo's rising temper—he'd anticipated this, clearly. "And who's to say I've held this information from you in the first place?"

There was a flash of movement; Corvo stepped forward and yanked his arm free of Soap's grasp when his hand shot out in an attempt to hold him back. Soap called out Corvo's name, who only ignored him as he crossed the room and slammed his hands flat against Havelock's desk, sending loose papers to the floor as he leaned forward. Martin took a step back, but Havelock didn't waver, staring straight up at Corvo as if challenging him.

"If you hadn't kept this from me in the first place," Corvo growled, "You would've just said so outright." His cheeks tightened as his lip curled in a sneer, and with venom dripping from his voice, he added, " _Admiral._ "

The temperature in the room dropped as soon as the title left Corvo's mouth. Soap felt his stomach drop as he watched Havelock's cool demeanor waver, the edges of his lips turning downward and even gaze shifting into a glare. Martin looked worried now, his eyes glued to the two of them while he clasped his hands, rolling his thumbs together as he visibly chewed on his lip.

Soap had seen the Admiral angry, once on the day Soap stumbled into the Hound Pits looking like he'd just dragged himself from the sewers, and once on the day he heard the news of Martin’s capture. It was an alarmed sort of anger, the kind of anger triggered by intrusion and fear of discovery. The anger now on Havelock's face, however, was different from that time. It was colder, deeper, his body rigid as though he was dedicating all his effort to restraining himself. The implications of what Corvo had said were not lost on anyone, not on Soap and not on Havelock; the title of "Admiral," once said from a place of respect for his authority, was now an insult, and it had cut deep.

"Corvo," Havelock said slowly, his voice low and uninflected. "I suggest you watch your temper. And your tongue."

Soap stepped forward as he saw a tremor pass through Corvo's body, prepared to grab and pull him back to a respectable distance away from the Admiral's desk. He was certain nothing physical would break out—not between Corvo and Havelock, not  _now_ —but he could feel the tension crackling in the air and it was only a matter of time until someone said or did something they'd regret. "Corvo," he started, but cut himself off when Corvo's hand shot up in a gesture of silence. Soap held his tongue, and Corvo's hand slowly returned to Havelock's desk, his fingers curling into the wood.

"She is my charge." Corvo tilted his head, rolling his shoulders as he spoke. "She is my responsibility and has been for the decade she's been in this world." He raised his chin. "As her Lord Protector, I should be the  _first_  to know of anything pertaining to her, and that  _includes_  information as crucial as  _her damned location_. How can I trust that you act in the interest of the future Empress if you can't even  _tell me where the child is?_ "

"Considering the circumstances,  _Lord Protector_ , you're in no place to be questioning my motives," Havelock shot back. Soap ground his teeth, then sucked in a breath at what followed: "I fully expect you to trust us and follow our orders and know your place." He narrowed his eyes. "Or have we dragged a wild hound from the kennels?"

Corvo jolted as if he'd been struck, and with a sharp call of Havelock's title Martin stepped forward, reaching for Havelock's shoulder. Havelock pointedly turned his head as a gesture for Martin to stay back and remain silent, then stared straight at Corvo, who was now visibly trembling. Soap approached the desk and placed a firm hand on Corvo's shoulder, frowning when he didn't react.

"Excuse me," Havelock muttered, reaching into his coat and pulling out a case of cigarettes. "I lost my temper. Compose yourself, and come back when you're ready to hear the details of the mission."

There was a moment of hesitation before Corvo whipped around, pulling himself free of Soap's grasp and striding across the room, wrenching open the door and slamming it behind him as he left the Admiral's quarters. Without looking at the Admiral or at Martin, Soap followed, crossing the room and pulling the door open just wide enough to fit through. He closed it as though it was made of glass, then ran after Corvo, who was already at the end of the hall.

"Corvo— Corvo, hold on, dammit!" Soap reached for Corvo as he drew close. "Are you oka—"

Corvo whipped around, slapping Soap's hand away from him with a sneer. "Don't touch me!" he snapped. Soap's hands shot up in surrender; the last thing he wanted was to anger Corvo further.

"Seven. Months." Corvo's voice was shaking now, and he backed against the wall, away from Soap. "For  _seven months_  I had no idea where she was." He reached up, his hands curling into fists in his hair. " _Six_  of those months in Coldridge, where they did—they did  _unspeakable_  things to me.  _Unspeakable_  things, John." Soap watched, at a loss for words, as Corvo slid to the floor, his head hanging as he took in a gasping breath. "And he— He—"

Soap dropped to his knees, crawling to Corvo's side. He reached for Corvo but didn't touch him, his hands hovering over Corvo's wrists. "I'm sorry, Corvo. I should've said something— That wasn't—"

“I was there when she was born, John. I was there, and I held her in my arms, and I watched her grow up—” His voice, shaking and desperate, rose in pitch, and he moved his hands to his face. “I was there to raise her, to play with her, to  _protect her_  for all the ten years she’s been alive—imagine, John.” Corvo looked up, his eyes red and cheeks glistening. “Imagine watching someone you’ve protected and loved all their life suddenly be stolen away, and not even knowing whether or not they're  _alive._ ”

Soap’s breath caught in his throat as he remembered the times he’d lost Price, his heart dropping from the mere agonizing memory that consumed him for months over whether Price was alive somewhere. The constant worry, the nightmares that came over and over, the torture of blaming himself, thinking that maybe there was something he could’ve done—and Soap had known him closely, intimately, for five years. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Corvo was feeling, how much it must’ve tortured him to not know where the child was while he faced the horrors of his imprisonment for six months. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to raise a child as his own and then watch her be stolen away. A knot settled deep in Soap’s gut, and he gave a sympathetic grimace as he reached for Corvo’s face. Corvo flinched, then relaxed when Soap wordlessly brushed his thumbs under his eyes, wiping away new tears.

“And they  _hid_ her from me,” Corvo whispered, closing his eyes. “They  _knew_  where she was, and they _hid her from me_ —how long? How many days did they know but didn’t act? How many days were wasted?” Corvo’s fingers brushed against Soap’s wrists, cold and shaking. “How many days did they make Emily wait and suffer, alone, while they played their little  _game_?”

Soap silently wiped away more tears, at loss for anything to say while Corvo’s breathing, ragged and desperate, began to slow. Realizing how Corvo must feel with someone so close while he fell apart, Soap started to draw his hands away. He returned them to Corvo’s cheeks when, with a low grunt, Corvo gripped his wrists and weakly tugged on them.

“I’m sorry,” was all Soap could express in the end, his voice barely above a whisper. A soft, high-pitched noise caught itself in Corvo’s throat, and he leaned into Soap’s touch, his hands coming up to rest on top of Soap’s, his eyes remaining closed. “I’m so sorry.”

Corvo’s head tilted downwards. “I just want her back, John.”

“And we’ll get her back.” Soap gently tilted Corvo’s head back up. Corvo opened his eyes, meeting Soap’s gaze. “We’ll get her back, Corvo. I promise she’s far too important for them to have done harm toward. We’ll go there, we’ll get her—without a single hair out of place—and we’ll bring her back so that you can hold her again, safe and sound.” Soap coaxed his expression into a reassuring smile. “And she won’t have to be alone anymore. That much I can promise. And I’ll be there to watch your back—and her’s.”

Corvo let out a shaky laugh, gently pulling his face from Soap’s hands. “Since when are you so sensitive?” he remarked, and a grin tugged on Soap’s lips.

“Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t fall apart.”

Corvo huffed, then lowered his gaze again. “Give me a few moments,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around his legs and dropping his forehead to his knees. “I need some time to compose myself.”

Soap hummed, then turned and leaned back against the wall beside Corvo. He reached around and draped an arm over Corvo’s shoulders, with no objection from Corvo.

There were a few moments of silence between the two of them as they just sat, Soap looking around the hallway as Corvo worked on steadying his breathing beside him. Now that they weren’t talking—and now that Corvo was much calmer—Soap could hear indistinct voices coming from the Admiral’s room. He and Martin were arguing, no doubt, but about what, Soap couldn’t make out. He pursed his lips and pulled Corvo closer.

“I should kick the Admiral’s arse for saying that shit to you.”

Corvo let out a sigh. “Please, Soap. Quiet.”

“Ah, right. Sorry.”

 

* * *

 

It was a long while before Corvo was ready to face the Admiral again, but soon enough he and Soap returned to Havelock's quarters. Corvo had splashed his face with water and Soap had helped him tend to any evidence of crying. Now, Corvo's face carried no sign of him even having a breakdown in the first place. He was carefully composed, his hands clasped behind him as he regarded Havelock, who now stood behind his desk, with a cool gaze. Soap remained by Corvo's side, ready to intervene should something happen again—though, given Havelock's considerably calmer demeanor, it was safe to assume that no more insults would be passed between them.

"Are you ready, Corvo?" Martin asked, leaning against Havelock's desk as he looked expectantly at the two men across from him. Corvo nodded, and with a low "good," Martin began:

"Emily is, again, being held in the Golden Cat. She is under the charge of the twins, Morgan and Custis Pendleton—our Lord Pendleton's older brothers, as I'm sure you're aware." While he listened, Soap watched Havelock's actions closely. The Admiral was nursing a cigarette, taking lazy drags from it as Martin continued. "As I'm sure you're also aware, the twins are in charge of the Pendleton family's voting bloc and have been steadily in support of the Lord Regent in Parliament. Their votes are crucial to the Lord Regent's parliamentary success so not only are they in possession of the heir, but they also have the votes that can work in the Lord Regent's favor—or against it."

"Pendleton has already attempted to reason with his brothers," Havelock put in, "to no avail. So I'm afraid—"

"—They'll have to be eliminated," Corvo finished for him. "Where are they?"

"Pendleton says they've been spending all their time at the Golden Cat recently, given its reopening—and, no doubt, to keep an eye on Emily."  Havelock reached down and tapped the ashes from his cigarette into the empty glass on his desk. "It shouldn't be hard to find them there."

"I go in, eliminate them, find Emily, and get out." Corvo nodded. "Solid plan."

"I'm sure you already anticipate this order given his presence, but take MacTavish with you," Havelock added. "His help was essential in dispatching the High Overseer, and I'm sure his presence should help you in completing both tasks at once."

Soap shook his head. "Please, all I did was walk Martin back to the boat—"

The smile on Havelock's face was strained. "No, actually, you didn't, but I'd love to hear the  _actual_  story sometime." Soap and Corvo exchanged a shocked look, and Havelock took another drag from his cigarette. "In any case, go with Corvo. You've got three targets—two to eliminate, one to retrieve. That's plenty of work for the two of you."

"Pendleton would like to finish briefing you on the mission," Martin said. "Personally, I think it's best."

"I agree. And Corvo..."

Corvo grew rigid at the way Havelock uttered his name, prepared for whatever the Admiral would say. Havelock sighed, sitting back down at his desk and looking evenly up at him.

"What I said earlier... Forgive me. I lost my temper. You're an essential part of this conspiracy and as its head I would hate to—"

"—No, Admiral." Corvo shook his head. "I know. I'm fine. Let's just...forget about it."

There was a pause. "...Very well," Havelock murmured, raising his cigarette to his lips.

"When do we depart?"

"There's still plenty of daylight," Martin stated, tossing a quick glance out the nearest window. "And I'm sure Pendleton's still waiting for you down by the docks. I suggest you two leave today, as soon as possible."

Soap cleared his throat. "So, I guess this means we're dismissed?"

"You are." Havelock took one last drag from his cigarette before putting it out, dropping it in his makeshift ashtray. "Good luck, men. I don't need to tell you how important this is to the conspiracy—and to the Empire."

Corvo wordlessly nodded his head in response, gently bumping Soap's shoulder in a "come along" gesture as he turned to leave the Admiral's quarters. There was something cold about his demeanor, Soap noticed, something stilted. What the Admiral had said cut too deeply to be mended with a simple apology. Silently, Soap nodded at Havelock and Martin and departed after Corvo, stepping through the doorway and closing the door behind them.

 

* * *

 

It didn't take long for Soap and Corvo to prepare for their trip to the Golden Cat. Corvo was silent the entire time he checked over his weapons and gear, taking inventory of his ammo and making sure his weaponry was in good enough shape. Soap didn't have much to look over, just his combat knife and the pistol Corvo let him borrow. Though Soap wasn't used to the kind of guns that were toted around in this world, he opted to leave his M1911 at the Hound Pits among his other belongings, deciding that it would be best to use a weapon for which ammo was more readily available. Corvo gave him a case of bullets as well; it was enough only for one reload, Soap noticed, but if the mission went well he wouldn't even need to touch the trigger.

"One of these days we'll get you some weapons of your own," Corvo had promised, but considering the fact that their coalition could barely afford food, oil, and ingredients for the elixir needed to fight against the plague, Soap wasn't expecting a shiny new set of toys in the near future.

"I still smell like the damn sewer," Soap complained once he and Corvo were downstairs, armed and ready for the mission ahead. Corvo scoffed and rolled his eyes, pushing the courtyard-facing doors open and gesturing for Soap to go out first.

"You're not the only one," he responded, stepping out after Soap once he'd crossed the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind them. Soap shivered as a cold breeze swept in from the river and tugged at his jacket.

Soap wrinkled his nose, pulling at the scarf draped over his shoulders. "Aye, well, at least it's just your  _boots_ ," he grumbled, gesturing down at his pants. The legs were stained from the muck of the sewer water, and now that he was focused on it the stench was becoming unbearable. Corvo's boots were tall enough that his own pants didn't get wet, and the coat that he now wore—which would’ve been long enough to get soaked—had been folded up on his bed when he and Soap were busy dispatching weepers. A grin tugged on Corvo's lips before he turned away, hiding his face from Soap as they crossed the courtyard together.

Lord Pendleton was nowhere in sight; Soap assumed that he was still down by the docks, waiting for him and Corvo to arrive so he could finish briefing them on the mission like Martin and Havelock said he would. Soap drew a breath to ask about him moments before the man himself appeared, his head popping up from the concrete steps leading down to the docks.  _Speak of the devil._

Pendleton's face was twisted into a frown that only deepened when he saw Corvo and Soap approaching, the nobleman climbing the rest of the stairs and standing by the gate at the top. He crossed his arms and watched as the two men strode up to him, raising a brow once they were at an acceptable distance.

"I was beginning to think you two would never show up." Pendleton pursed his lips. "I was about to go into the pub and look for you myself."

"Yeah? Guess we should be glad we found you when we did."

Corvo wasted no time. "What is it you want to tell us?"

Pendleton blinked at Corvo's forwardness, then sighed and reached into his coat, pulling out his silver flask as he began. "I'm sure you already know who the targets are," he explained, unscrewing the cap of his flask and taking a swig. "I'm sending you to kill my older brothers, Morgan and Custis." The nobleman's nose twitched as though he wanted to make a face but couldn't bring himself to do so. "They're terrible men, it's true, as you may have heard. Cruel beyond words."

Soap gave Corvo a look, both brows raised. Corvo didn't return it, instead crossing his arms and tilting his head expectantly at Pendleton. The Lord swallowed, then continued.

"Furthermore," he said, putting the cap back on his flask, "my brothers are close allies to the Lord Regent, and as long as they are in Parliament we cannot gather the votes we'll need to stop the Lord Regent from consolidating his power."

Corvo's lip twitched. "As we're aware."

Pendleton paused a moment, staring at Corvo with an unreadable expression on his face. "These days," he continued slowly, "they're best known for exploiting their favor with him to cheat others out of their wealth. Let's just say that not every family evicted and quarantined for having the plague—" Pendleton's gaze flickered between Soap and Corvo as he leaned forward, lowering his voice, "—actually  _has_  the plague."

Soap felt his lips turn downward but said nothing, sneaking another glance Corvo's way. Corvo's expression went unchanged.  _You’re awfully good at keeping a straight face._

"I warned my brothers in every way I could," Pendleton explained with a shake of his head, "I really did, but they never did listen to me. They'll be at the Golden Cat tonight, at their usual...revels. They'll be protected by the City Watch," he warned, "so it'll be dangerous."

"Nothing I can't handle," Corvo replied with an edge to his voice. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other; despite the fact he outwardly seemed unaffected by what Pendleton was telling him, he made no effort to hide his restlessness. Soap looked away, tugging at his jacket with hopes of adjusting the Kevlar he wore underneath.

Pendleton frowned, pressing his lips together as he thought of something to say. "...Right,” he finally muttered, unscrewing the cap of his flask again, this time with more force. “Now go. Please do it before I change my mind."

Leaning over and muttering, "Let’s go," in Soap's ear, Corvo headed for the stairs without another word to Pendleton, adjusting the sleeves of his coat as he walked down to the docks. With a low farewell, Soap followed him, pointedly looking away when Pendleton tipped his flask back and took a large drink from it, squeezing his eyes shut.

Soap pulled his scarf from his shoulders while he followed Corvo down to the docks and wrapped it around his neck, positioning it so he'd be able to pull it up over his nose when the time came. Judging by the weather—the bright sun high in the blue sky, with only a few wispy clouds floating lazily by—it wasn't going to rain this time around, much to Soap's relief. He lingered behind as Corvo walked right up to the riverboat docked at the concrete landing where Samuel stood, waiting, with a cigarette in his hand.

"His Lordship told me where you two are headed," Samuel said in lieu of a greeting, giving Corvo a small smile as he approached. Soap shoved his hands in his pockets, kicking around rock on the bank as he waited for permission to board. "The Golden Cat."

Corvo nodded. "Do you know where it is?"

Samuel's smile faltered, his face tightening, and he took a drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and putting it out under his heel. "Yep, I've taken Lord Pendleton enough times, believe me."

Soap wrinkled his nose.  _Didn't need to know that._

A strangled groan escaped Corvo’s throat. "Alright, old man," he sighed, stepping past Samuel without even waiting for a response. Samuel blinked, watching wide-eyed as Corvo boarded the riverboat.  "Let's head out. I want to get there as soon as possible."

Samuel hummed then jumped in the boat after him, taking his position at the bow. Soap boarded last, taking a seat across from Corvo and pulling his jacket tighter around himself. Samuel started the engine and piloted the boat away from shore, slowly picking up speed as he started down the river.

"What's at the Golden Cat?" Samuel called out over the dull roar of the engine, turning to briefly look between Soap and Corvo. Corvo pulled his mask out of his coat but didn't put it on, turning it over in his hands and running his thumbs over the metal facing. "Lord Pendleton said it was important, but he never said—"

"The Pendleton twins," Corvo answered, cutting Samuel's sentence short. He looked up at the boatman, his brows turned upwards. "And Emily."

Samuel whistled lowly, turning back to watch where he was steering. "Sounds like you two have your hands full."

Corvo grunted and said nothing else, looking back down at his mask as if it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Soap sighed, adjusting his sleeves and looking out at the open river. He gripped the seat as the boat sped up, riding out the bumps and waves of the river as the cityscape on the distant bank rolled by.

 

* * *

 

The three men spent the rest of their trip in silence, none of them saying a word until the  _Amaranth_  began to slow down, steering closer to the near bank. Corvo looked up from where he'd been examining his sword to pass the time. His mask was on now, his hood pulled over his head.

"We're stopping here?"

Soap hadn't been paying attention to exactly where the boat was going until Corvo said something, and he raised his head to examine his surroundings. The riverbank that the boat was approaching—and the remains of an old bridge that jutted out into the river—looked familiar, and Soap quickly recognized it as the place Samuel had dropped him and Corvo off several nights before. He frowned, pulling his scarf over his nose and mouth and shooting an expectant look Samuel's way.

Samuel nodded, not looking away from the direction he was steering the boat. "This is about as far as I can take you," he explained. "Security's gonna be real tight, and there's no way I can bring ya straight to the Golden Cat without getting caught."

"So it's on the river, then."

Samuel briefly glanced at Corvo over his shoulder. "You've never—..." Samuel stopped himself with a chuckle and concentrated again on piloting his boat. "Oh no, of course not."

"Where is the Golden Cat, exactly?" Soap asked, pulling up his hood. "We were in such a rush to leave that we never bothered to ask for the exact location."

"It's not too far from Holger Square, I believe," Samuel said, "though I wouldn't know exactly how to get there from here."

Corvo sighed. "I guess we'll have to do a bit more exploring, then."

"Slackjaw might have some ideas on how to get inside the Cat," Samuel suggested. He paused, then added, "If he don't kill ya."

"Slackjaw." Corvo hummed. "That's the leader of the gang in this part of the district, correct?"

Samuel nodded. "He and his Bottle Street Gang have holed up in the old Dunwall Whiskey Factory," he explained, "And they make money brewing the elixir that folks use to fight off the plague."

Soap frowned. "They make their own elixir?"

"Bootleg, probably," Corvo put in. "Easy to make if they have some of the actual stuff on hand, and cheap. It's probably some variant of Sokolov's elixir they're brewing."

"Yep. And one other thing," Samuel added, pulling the riverboat as close as he could to the bank before cutting off the engine. "A riverhand pulled up beside me last night and said that one of them watchtowers was put up on Clavering Boulevard." Samuel stood and jumped out of the boat, then went to work tying it down to wooden posts erected in the mud. "Whatever you did at the High Overseer's must've really spooked the Lord Regent."

"As it should." Corvo stepped out of the boat, with Soap following close behind. "Thank you, Samuel."

"Of course. Since those two Pendleton twins are holed up inside the Cat, there’s gonna be a lot of guards." Samuel held up a finger. "But the most important thing," he said, "is finding that little girl, Emily, and getting her back all safe and sure."

Soap glanced at Corvo, who said nothing as Samuel finished tying the boat down. The boatman stood up straight, running his hands over his jacket as he looked between the two men before him.

"I'll lay low and keep an eye out for ya and the little girl you're bringing back. Good luck to ya." Samuel's expression softened as he looked at Corvo, addressing him directly. "I know Emily must mean a lot to ya."

Corvo's shoulder's sagged briefly before he straightened up again, nodding and muttering another low, "thank you." He turned and gestured at Soap to follow, then started for the streets. Soap gave Samuel a departing nod and followed Corvo, adjusting his scarf over his face.

The bank was abandoned save for its visitors, and it was a straight shot to the street above. Despite it being broad daylight, Soap noticed, the lower streets were still largely abandoned, except for a single civilian wandering down the street. Corvo turned right from the bank in the opposite direction of the wandering civilian, walking in the same direction as he had the last time they visited. Soap lingered behind him, taking the chance to look around in the daylight.

Not much had changed since the last time Soap had been here; most of the surrounding buildings were still abandoned, boarded up with some doorways painted over with warnings of the plague. As they drew closer to where they first met the old woman, Granny Rags, Soap was quick to notice that her house was boarded up as well, the entrance through the second floor shuttered and her door sealed off and bearing the red painted warning of plague. A stab of pity went through Soap's gut at the sight and he quickly looked away—

Soap came to a sudden stop when he noticed that Corvo was standing still, his hand hovering over the handle of his crossbow. At the mouth of the alley leading to Blood Ox Way stood a man, leaning against the nearest building with his arms crossed, as if he were waiting. His scarred, bearded face was settled into a deep frown, and when he saw Soap and Corvo, he stood up straight, moving his hands to his hips as he turned and spat on the cobblestone. It wasn't his presence alone that caused Soap—and, Soap assumed, Corvo—to stop; it was the cleaver that hung from his belt, glinting in the sunlight.

"Hey, you!" the stranger called out before Soap or Corvo had time to act. "You're jus' the men I's lookin' for." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the alley behind him. "Come with me."

Soap and Corvo exchanged a glance, Soap frowning at Corvo's mask. Corvo's chest heaved as he drew a deep breath, then sighed, turning to face the man at the mouth of the alley.

"What for?" Corvo demanded. The stranger scowled at Corvo's tone and spat on the ground again.

" _What for?_  Jus' come along, will ya?" When neither Soap nor Corvo relented, he rolled his eyes, gesturing wildly with his hands. "I promise I won't rob ya or cut ya or nothin'. Jus' wanna talk is all."

Soap narrowed his eyes. "Yeah? How do we know that you're telling the truth?"

Exasperated, the bearded stranger scoffed. He said nothing as he turned and continued down the alley, tossing an expectant look over his shoulder in lieu of waiting any longer. There was a moment of hesitation, and then a sigh as Corvo started to follow.

"We're going in that direction anyway," he murmured, answering Soap's question before he even had a chance to ask. "Might as well see what he wants."

 _And if he tries anything, we can defend ourselves._  The words weren't spoken, but they were understood nonetheless.

His hand coming up to rest on the handle of his borrowed gun, Soap fell in step beside Corvo, sticking close in anticipation of whatever surprise the stranger wanted to spring on them. No surprise came, however, and the stranger quietly led them down to the end of the alley were two more equally armed men waited. Soap started to pull his pistol free but stopped when he noticed how relaxed the two strangers at the end of the alley were; they were standing, facing each other and talking in hushed voices between each other. One of them was nursing a cigarette, and when he noticed his companion approaching—followed by Soap and Corvo—he made no effort to discard it, even when the conversation between him and the man beside him stopped. They were both armed with cleavers, and the one with a cigarette also had a full bottle hanging from his belt; neither of them made any attempts to reach for their weapons.

"That them?" the man with the cigarette grunted.

The man beside him frowned, studying Soap and Corvo as they stopped a good distance away. After a moment, he nodded, crossing his arms. "Yeah," he affirmed, scratching at the stubble that lined his jaw. "That's them alright."

The man with the cigarette grunted again, taking a deep drag from his cigarette before speaking; "Hey, you; we got a message for you. From Slackjaw."

 _Slackjaw?_  Soap glanced at Corvo, furrowing his brow. Corvo didn't return the look, tilting his head at the man with the cigarette.

"He says he wants to talk," the man with the cigarette elaborated. "At the Distillery."

"May I ask why?"

The man with the cigarette shrugged. "I dunno," he responded, much to Soap's annoyance—and, clearly, Corvo's as well, if Soap judged his low sigh correctly. "He jus' says he wants to speak to the both of you, personally. Says it's important. Wouldn't tell us why."

Every part of Soap screamed that this was a bad idea; there was no reason to say these three weren't lying and trying to lower his and Corvo's guard, looking for a chance to jump them. He couldn't think of a reason why Slackjaw would ask for the two of them personally; even considering the thugs killed in front of Granny Rags' old place, there was no way Slackjaw—or any of these men—would be able to pin the blame on them in the first place. None of these men should even be able to recognize them to begin with.

A hand firmly gripped Soap's arm. Startled out of his thoughts, he looked up as Corvo tugged him further down the alley, away from the three men. "Give us a moment," he hissed, turning his back on them. Soap pulled his arm from Corvo's grasp and did the same, and the two of them walked a few paces down until it seemed safe enough to speak.

"We should just ditch them and go," Soap muttered, stepping close to Corvo and leaning towards him. Corvo did the same, his mask inches away from Soap's face. "It's dangerous and a waste of time."

Corvo hummed, and Soap could clearly imagine the frown settled on his face. "I would agree," he responded, resting a hand on Soap's shoulder, "But think about it. If they wanted to do something to us, they'd have done so already, don't you think?"

"Maybe they're trying to get us to lower our guard, ever thought of that?"

"Maybe so. Or maybe they're telling the truth and Slackjaw wants to see us—and if we see him, he could potentially help us." Corvo held up a finger. "Neither of us know the city as well as he does; I only knew how to find the Office because I've been there so many times. He would know this part of the city top to bottom." Corvo lowered his finger. "He could tell us where to find the Golden Cat."

"...Okay, you've got a point," Soap grumbled, reaching up to adjust his scarf. "But how does he know who  _we_  are?"

"We'll find that out. If anything, Slackjaw wanting to see us might work in our advantage." Corvo paused. "We'll need to watch ourselves." Corvo's voice dropped lower, and Soap strained to hear him. "We'll be in the heart of his territory. If something happens, we may be overwhelmed."

"Well, let's just make sure something  _doesn't_  happen."

Corvo nodded then jerked his head in the direction of Slackjaw's men behind them. "Let's go," he muttered and with a final pat of Soap's shoulder, he stood up straight.

"Alright," Corvo called out, turning and approaching the three men who waited at the end of the alley. Soap lingered behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. "You said Slackjaw wanted to see us, right? Well, take us to him. Let's see what he has to say."

The man with the cigarette huffed, tossing his cigarette onto the ground and crushing it under his heel. "Let's get going, then. Slackjaw doesn't like to be kept waiting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my friends @heavensreverb, @akivakun, @trxcers, and @retinaut on Tumblr for beta reading this chapter! I appreciate your input!
> 
> \---
> 
> Hey guys! While working on this chapter I decided to make a blog dedicated to Call of Honor, and so with Chapter 13 I'm unveiling [@callofhonorblog](http://callofhonorblog.tumblr.com/)! There I'll reblog stuff pertaining to Dishonored and Call of Duty, discuss Call of Honor, post chapter updates, accept questions, and more! Come check it out if you're interested, and the ask box is open if you have any questions or want to start any type of discussion!
> 
> Thank you so much for supporting me so far!


	14. The Bottle Street Gang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor Edit: 12/06/17

The trip to the Distillery wasn’t a long one; Slackjaw’s men silently led Soap and Corvo down the winding alley that soon opened into a yard nestled in a gap between the nearby buildings. The yard was occupied by more of Slackjaw’s men, groups of them conversing amongst themselves between islands of piled garbage and old, discarded furniture and rusted sheets of metal. While most of the members of Slackjaw’s gang minded their own business, some eyed Soap and Corvo as they walked past; while most simply stared warily and made comments between themselves, Soap was careful not to return the stares of those who aggressively leered at them.

_So this is the Bottle Street Gang._

Soap took the chance to observe his surroundings while he could, along with the various individuals that occupied the surrounding space. Most, if not all the gang members, were armed with large cleavers that hung haphazardly from their belts. Most of the men were as clean and well-groomed as one could be on the streets during a time of hardship and turmoil; Soap spied one man sitting in a makeshift hovel nursing a cigarette, his worn clothes patched together by a clumsy hand. Some smoked or drank, and some patrolled around the yard while the rest stood and talked while waiting for something to happen, the midday sun bearing down on them.

The yard was split up into two sections by the crumbling remains of a brick wall and a towering archway, and at the end of the farthest section stood the old Dunwall Distillery itself, reaching high above the surrounding buildings; like the ones around it, the Distillery was clearly old and had long fallen into disrepair. Posters clung loosely to the old red brick of the Distillery and the other buildings, and most of the visible windows were either boarded up or shuttered with repurposed sheets of metal.

Soap and Corvo were taken inside, their guides leading them into a small foyer that opened into a larger room which, in turn, led down to the heart of the Distillery, accessible by a short, steep flight of metal stairs. Soap tugged on his scarf, the thick fabric stifling his breathing in the stagnant, dusty Distillery air. The air from outside permeated the poorly-insulated building, but despite this there was next to no circulation. He couldn’t imagine how cold it got in late winter or how hot it was during the height of summer. More of the Bottle Street Gang lingered here, islands of men and patrolling individuals peppered between the large brewing and storage contraptions left behind from the Distillery’s more productive days.

Soap and Corvo were led down the length of the large room and up another set of stairs, their guides taking them to another room that Soap could only describe as a reserve. Old barrels marked with the Distillery’s logo were stacked to the ceiling, but he had no time to linger and observe them much closer. Two of their Bottle Street guides separated from the group at this point, mumbling between each other and ignoring Soap and Corvo as they headed back to the main room. The bearded man they’d initially met remained to lead them down one last set of stairs and direct them to a barred door just a meter or so beyond.

“Slackjaw’s office is through there,” he explained. “You go on in. I’ll wait out here.”

Soap hesitated at the door, peering curiously at the bearded thug. Narrowing his eyes, the thug crossed his arms and jutted out his chin with an expectant scowl, grunting at Soap and Corvo as if telling them to get going. There was a creak, and Soap turned in time to see Corvo let himself into Slackjaw’s office, walking deeper into the room without waiting for Soap. With a sigh, Soap followed, letting the door swing shut behind him.

From what Soap could immediately see, there was no sign of Slackjaw; at the very end of the room he spied a still where he assumed bootleg elixir was brewed, steam slowly rising to the ceiling. The nearby wall was lined with wooden shelving and stacked high with books, bottles, and empty elixir vials. Following Corvo deeper into the room, Soap quickly found a desk nestled into the far corner. Behind it stood a man who could only be Slackjaw himself, hunched over as he studied a poster laid out on the desk, a cigar in one hand.

He was tall, with olive-toned, warm brown skin and neatly combed dark brown hair, his faintly receding hairline and wrinkled brow hinting at his age. A grin tugged on Soap’s lips as he noticed the thick caterpillar above Slackjaw’s lip, similar to the one Price had before he grew out his moustache into a beard. Slackjaw was as well-dressed as a crime boss living in the belly of an old distillery could get, his visibly old clothes about as clean and neat as Soap assumed he could achieve. Slackjaw looked up when Soap and Corvo silently entered the room, his dark brown eyes lighting up and a small grin falling on his lips as he stood up straight.

“Ah, here’s a couple a’ villains, if I judge your looks a’right,” Slackjaw said in lieu of a greeting, shaking ashes from his cigar. He had a rough voice, marred from years of smoking. “A couple a’ villains I might have some work for.”

Soap blinked, watching Slackjaw as he stepped around the desk, puffing lazily on his cigar. He didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to get talking—or do much of  _anything,_ really. In fact, he seemed completely relaxed in their presence.

“You’ve got a lot of men out there,” Soap pointed out. Slackjaw raised a brow at him, his lips still wrapped around the end of his cigar. “And you asked for us...why?”

Slackjaw sighed, letting out a cloud of smoke. “That ain’t all of ‘em,” he explained. “I’ve been losin’ my men left and right these days. First, the Plague hit us, and now we’ve got the City Watch crackin’ down on us real hard.” Slackjaw gestured with his cigar, his face falling into a frown. “Half my men are dead or missing.”

“How did you know to ask for us specifically?” Corvo demanded; he made no effort to mask his voice like he’d done with Curnow, Soap noticed. Saying nothing, Soap crossed his arms and tilted his head expectantly at Slackjaw.

Humming, Slackjaw drummed his fingers on the side of his desk. “You ain’t seen the posters?”

“Posters?”

Slackjaw huffed and shook his head. “Guess not,” he muttered, and he waved Soap and Corvo towards his desk, sticking his cigar into his mouth and holding it between his teeth. Soap glanced at Corvo, who only shrugged and started for the desk as Slackjaw walked back behind it. After a moment of hesitation, Soap followed, watching as Slackjaw flipped around the poster he’d been studying before so the two men before him could see. Taking a deep breath, Soap peered down at the poster.

Inked sketches of Soap’s face, obscured by his hood and scarf, and Corvo’s mask, stared back up at him. The sketches were impressive—and fairly accurate much to Soap’s dismay, the hatched patterns nailing down the details of Corvo’s mask and even the texture of Soap’s scarf. Soap grimaced as he read the text beneath the drawings, written in bold, official font:

 

**_WANTED: For the murder of High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell_ **

**_THESE MASKED FELONS_ **

**_REWARD of 10,000 coins EACH for CAPTURE or DEATH_ **

 

 _Curnow._ It was the first name Soap thought of. Curnow was the only person who could’ve seen them closely enough to have someone produce such accurate sketches; despite what he and Corvo had done to save him, it had to have been him who gave out their descriptions. At first, Soap felt anger bubbling deep in his chest—it subsided when Soap reminded himself that, at the end of the day, Curnow still had a job to carry out. As an officer of the City Watch, he should’ve attempted to detain Corvo and Soap at the Office of the High Overseer—and yet, he didn’t. Allowing them to escape the Office unhindered was as far as his favors to them could go, it seemed.

“Ain’t nobody worth killin’ around here ‘xcept them two Pendletons over at the Golden Cat,” Slackjaw began, talking around the cigar in his mouth and distracting Soap from his thoughts. “And I figured that you two would come skulkin’ around here sooner or later. I was right, wasn’t I?” Soap looked up and saw Slackjaw’s lips pull back in a toothy grin, the cigar now in his hand. “See,” he said, “Slackjaw knows.”

“You knew they were at the Cat?” Corvo asked, also glancing up. Soap could hear the frown in his voice.

Slackjaw nodded. “Aye,” he replied. “Word on the street is, they’ve been layin’ low there for quite some time.” Slackjaw shook his head and shrugged. “Not sure why. I  _also_ know that ‘cause of the reopening, there’s gonna be a lotta security at the Golden Cat tonight —special guests and the like.” His face shifted into a scowl. “And you two are gonna walk in  _there,_ dressed like  _that,_ and kill the Pendleton brothers? No. Maybe I got a better way to take care of them two.” Slackjaw’s grin returned. “If you do somethin’ for me first, understand?”

There was a pause as Soap thought, weighing their options. Slackjaw had a point; Soap and Corvo only had the barest idea of how to even  _get_ to the Golden Cat, let alone infiltrate it without being seen. And now that they were plastered on posters all over the city, they wouldn’t be able to just waltz in as though they were invited—not that they would’ve been able to in the first place. If they got spotted and escaped without getting shot down, they would lose the Pendletons—and they would lose Emily.

Slackjaw, on the other hand, knew this part of the city like the back of his hand. He would know how to get to the Golden Cat, and Soap figured Slackjaw might even know how to navigate the brothel. If anyone could get them into the Golden Cat without being seen, it was him. Soap assumed that Corvo came to the same conclusion, because after a few moments, he spoke:

“Alright, Slackjaw. What do you have in mind?”

Slackjaw’s grin widened. “Smart men. I like you.” He leaned against the desk, placing one hand firmly on its surface.

“Someone—I dunno who, it ain’t the Watch—is killing my men, taking my territory, and stealing my goods.” Slackjaw frowned, scratching at the stubble that lined his jaw. “Might be a fellow name of Galvani. I sent my best man to investigate but he went missin’ and, well”— Slackjaw shrugged —“now I need someone to find out what happened to him.”

“Alright.” Corvo stood up straight. “Where to?”

Slackjaw pushed aside the poster on his desk, along with a few other papers, uncovering a map of the district with notes scrawled on it in black ink. Corvo bent over to get a good look at the map. “Go to this Galvani’s place,” he explained, pointing out one of the marked places on the map. “Right here, just off Clavering Boulevard. Find out where my missing man is. You do this for me, and I’ll getcha a better way into the Golden Cat.”

Soap chewed on his lip. Galvani’s place wasn’t too far away; nevertheless, he and Corvo didn’t have much time to spare. This would have to be quick—get in, find what they can, and get out.

“Alright, Slackjaw.” Corvo straightened up again and adjusted his hood. “You’ve got a deal.”

Slackjaw’s toothy grin broadened into a smile. “I knew you’d listen to reason.” He puffed on his cigar, then used it to gesture towards the door. “My men will lead you back out to the streets,” he said, “and then you can find your own way to Clavering. Be careful.” He tapped ashes from his cigar and perched it between his teeth again. “Lotta’ guards out today.”

Soap nodded wordlessly at Slackjaw before turning and leading the way out of the office, adjusting his scarf as he walked. He heard Corvo’s footsteps behind him, and the two of them met the bearded man outside of Slackjaw’s office; he’d been cleaning his nails while he waited, using a knife to get under them.

“I’ll take you to Bottle Street,” the man said, briefly looking up from where he was cleaning under his nails. “Back where I met you. You ready to go?”

“Aye.”

“A’right then.” The man sheathed his knife and waved them onward. “Get moving.”

 

* * *

 

The trip to Bottle Street was even shorter than the walk to the Distillery, and it wasn’t long before Soap and Corvo were returned to where they first met Slackjaw’s men. Their guide turned them loose with little ceremony, a wordless grunt serving as his farewell before he disappeared back down the alley, free of his charge. Watching him depart, Soap let out a heavy sigh once he and Corvo were left alone, adjusting his scarf.

“So, what’s the plan?”

“We’ll go the same way that we did last time,” Corvo explained, turning to point down the mouth of Blood Ox Way. Soap could see down the alley’s length; it was empty, just like it had been a few nights before. “Once we’re up high, we’ll be able to see Galvani’s place and any Watchmen on the street below.” He faced Soap, the exposed parts of his mask glinting in the light. “We’ll figure out a way in from there.”

Soap hummed. “Sounds good,” he replied, and with a nod, Corvo turned and headed down Blood Ox Way. Soap fell in step behind him, tugging his hood further over his head. It was eerily quiet, without a soul in sight—it wasn’t as creepy the last time he was here, at night when few people would be around anyway; now, however, the silence permeating the alley and the surrounding buildings at the height of daytime made Soap uneasy. His stomach twisted, and he was acutely aware of the fact that most of the nearby buildings—emptied when people fled or died from the plague—were residential.

If Corvo felt the same, he wasn’t letting it on, silently striding down the alleyway with his head turning to and fro as he surveyed his surroundings. When he came upon the bend where there was a staircase allowing access to a nearby roof, he turned and started to climb—however, he came to a sudden halt, his arm shooting into his coat to grasp  _something._ His sword, Soap assumed. Soap himself stopped a few feet away from him, out of sight of whatever or whoever was occupying their path forward, his hand coming up to rest on the handle of his pistol.

“Hey!” a voice called out, ringing through the silence of the alley. “You down there! Come up here, I think I got a little somethin’ you might like!”

Corvo tilted his head and faced Soap as if asking for advice, and Soap could almost see the baffled look that must’ve been hidden under his mask. The voice hadn’t sounded sound alarmed or angry, and Soap, unsure of what to make of the situation himself, shrugged in defeat. In the end, Corvo jerked his head towards the staircase and climbed, not removing his arm from his coat as he went. Soap followed, peering around the corner and up at the source of the voice.

There was an older man there, sitting on an old wooden box with a small folding knife in one hand and a half-peeled apple in the other. He flipped the knife shut as the men he’d called approached, stuffing it into his pocket and taking a big bite out of the peeled portion of his apple before standing. He set the apple on the box, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and pushing back his short, grey hair with the other. As Soap climbed the stairs, drawing closer, he could see the deep wrinkles and frown lines on the stranger’s face, his jaw darkened with short stubble.

 _So this is the guy blocking our path forward._ He was a civilian, made clear by his worn clothes; the stranger wore dark grey pants patched together with foreign squares of fabric, and he tugged on the sleeves of an old leather jacket, darkened with stains and scratches. Soap dropped his hand from where it had been resting on his pistol. The stranger wasn’t an immediate danger, but he was still a liability.

“What do you want?” Corvo asked gruffly, his arm still in his coat. “You’re in our way.”

The stranger blinked, tilting his head. “Hey, I recognize you. From the posters. The ‘Masked Felons,’ yeah?” He leaned forward. “The ones who killed the High Overseer, am I right?”

Soap saw no point in attempting to deceive him. “You gonna run to the Watch?”

The stranger wrinkled his nose, waving his hand in the air with a dismissive snort. “Nah,” he said. “Don’t see the point. You see any guards down here? I’d be dead and you’d be long gone before I could even peep. They don’t care about comin’ down to these streets anyway. Besides”— the stranger spread his arms—“maybe we can help each other.”

Corvo tilted his head. “What could you possibly have that worth us wasting our time over?”

The stranger hummed, clasping his hands together. “For you two? I got somethin’ real special.”

The stranger started down the stairs, gesturing for Soap and Corvo to follow. With a heavy sigh, Corvo obliged, dropping his hand from his coat and trailing behind the stranger as he led the way back down the stairs. Pursing his lips, Soap turned and swiped the apple from where the stranger had left it, pocketing it. He then followed, following beside Corvo as the stranger spoke.

“The name’s Griff,” he explained. “Griff’s Shop’s my business—or, it  _was,_ ‘till the Plague came and I had to start scavengin’. I cut a deal with the Bottle Street Gang, and now I deal with the black market, sellin’ munitions, blueprints, things of that sort—anythin’ I can get my hands on, really. Watch your step.”

Griff had led them down to the end of Blood Ox Way, to a building nestled right into the dead end of the alley. He stepped inside the building first; there was no door, so Corvo and Soap could follow him right through. It was dark inside, with a thick cloud of dust hanging in the air and clinging to every surface. Soap scowled at the brown, peeling paint on the walls and the garbage haphazardly piled into the corners, as if someone had made only the slightest effort to clean the place up. Griff stepped behind a counter at the front of the store, kneeling and digging through some unseen drawers, muttering under his breath.

“You really run a business out of this dump?” Soap scoffed. He picked up a tin of whale meat from a rotten wooden shelf held up in a rusted metal frame. “Anybody ever teach you to clean your shite up?” He looked around, spying broken glass—most likely from the shattered display cases pushed against the walls—and a back room that, from what Soap could see, was also piled high with garbage and rubble.

Griff’s head poked out from behind the counter, a scowl settled deep in his craggy features. “My old place was shut down, and I had to relocate. Haven’t had much of a chance to clean up.”

Corvo’s head turned as he looked around, and Soap heard a muffled snort. “I can see that.”

Griff said nothing, his head disappearing once more behind the counter as he resumed his search for  _whatever_ it was he was planning to offer them. Unintelligible muttering could be heard, along with the sound of shifting clutter; after a moment, Griff let out a triumphant, “Aha!” before shooting upright and holding up a folded piece of paper, carefully held together with a bit of twine.

“Here it is, boys!” Griff announced, shaking the folded paper in his hand. “Come up to the counter!” Corvo and Soap exchanged a glance, then relented, Corvo striding forward and Soap sauntering up to the counter with his hands in his pockets. His fingers brushed against the stolen apple in his pocket as he came to a stop in front of the counter.

“This better be good,” Soap mumbled. Griff grinned, wiping away dust that had settled on the counter with one hand before setting down the folded sheet of paper.

“Oh, it is.” Griff’s knobby fingers quickly got to work at undoing the twine. “You ever heard of the Whalers?”

Soap’s brow furrowed at Griff’s question and he shook his head, the name unfamiliar to him; Soap assumed that it belonged to some sort of gang, like the Bottle Street Gang. Corvo, however, visibly stiffened beside him, his hands curling into fists at his sides before slowly relaxing once more.

“I have,” Corvo responded shortly. Soap tilted his head at him, but said nothing.

Griff didn’t seem to notice the change in Corvo’s demeanor or tone, setting aside the twine and unfolding the sheet of paper; from what Soap could see, the paper was thick, almost like cardstock, and stained with dirt and dust. “Daud’s gang,” Griff said, “a bunch of mean sons o’ bitches. People say they and their boss got black magic, touched by the Outsider, but they also got a couple of gadgets that puts ‘em ahead of everyone—even the Watch. Weapons, things like that. There’s nothing like what they have on the market, and no one can make their own ‘cause there’s no blueprints”—Griff’s grin widened—“ _besides_ this one.”

Griff completely unfolded the paper, and now Soap could see the blueprint that had been folded carefully inside, protected by the larger sheet surrounding it. He had to squint to make out the text on the paper, the notes and instructions scrawled in a long, messy hand in black ink around a sketch of some sort of gadget Soap couldn’t immediately recognize. He took a closer look and noticed that it appeared to be a bow-like contraption, small enough to be worn on a user’s wrist.

Corvo leaned forward, a hand coming to rest on the counter. “...This is it?”

“Yep.” Griff nodded. “A wristbow. Nothing else like it—the Whalers have the only functioning ones.” He reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck. “An old buddy of mine got his hands on it and passed it along to me before he got caught and thrown in the slammer. ‘Parrently some guy managed to get his hands on one and reverse engineer it, and make the blueprint that way.” Griff paused. “I hear he went missin’ though.”

“This is what you wasted our time for?” Corvo growled. “A contraption stolen from a gang of—”

“—Assassins? Like you?”

“Right, well, what are  _we_ gonna want with it?” Soap put in, gesturing towards himself and Corvo.

Griff pursed his lips. “Well, it’s quiet,” he started. He jerked his thumb towards the gun strapped to Soap’s chest, adding, “Far quieter than that gun you’ve got there. It’s small and it’s light and it’s easy to hide and cheap to make, and I guarantee a bag of bolts is lighter to carry around than a case of bullets.”

“Right, and we’re supposed to believe that this is the real thing?” Soap scoffed, crossing his arms and shooting an unimpressed look Corvo’s way. “You got this from a  _friend of a friend_ who’s conveniently unable to vouch for himself”—he jerked his chin towards the blueprint—“and you expect us to believe this is legitimate?”

Griff raised his brows at Soap and thumbed the edge of the blueprint. “Well, if you ain’t interested, that don’t bother me. I can always find someone who’s willin’ to take it off my hands—”

“Ah, fine!” Corvo snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “Alright! What do you want for it?”

Griff’s grin returned. “Now we’re talking!” He leaned forward. “Y’know of a man named Galvani?”

“Aye. We were headed to his place, ‘till you stopped us.”

“Perfect! Then it’s in your way.” Griff folded the blueprint back up, grabbing the twine from where he’d pushed it aside. “A little bird told me about a new treatment he’s been workin’ on to fight off the plague.” He scratched his chin. “Elixir, I think, but whatever it is, I want it.”

With a sigh, Corvo leaned forward, resting his hands on the counter as Griff secured the twine back into place. “So, if we bring you this... _treatment_ that Galvani is working on, you’ll give us the blueprint?”

“Precisely.” Griff stowed the folded blueprint back under the counter.

Soap tilted his head. “Who’s to say this little birdie of yours wasn’t singin’ the wrong tune?”

Griff scowled. “I  _assure_ you that  _all_ of my sources are  _trustworthy._ ”

“Regardless,” Corvo put in, “we don’t exactly have time to be running errands for black market dealers.”

Griff clasped his hands together, resting them on top of the counter. “Well,” he said with a tilt of his head, “You two could always just pay full price. I got an offer for two thousand coin for this here blueprint.” He raised a brow, glancing between Soap and Corvo. “Can you beat that?”

Soap stepped beside Corvo, placing his hands firmly on the counter’s surface as he leaned towards Griff who recoiled at the sudden closeness. “And what’s stopping us from just taking it from you?” He turned to Corvo, who cocked his head at him, but said nothing as Soap continued: “Who’s to say the same men who killed the High Overseer wouldn’t have a problem with stealing from some old, unarmed shopkeep?”

The shock that crossed Griff’s face was short-lived, and his wide-eyed expression was quickly replaced with a deep frown. “Slackjaw wouldn’t be too happy,” he growled, “if something happened one of his business partners, now, would he?”

 _Damn._ Soap stood back up, his shoulders bouncing into a defeated shrug as Corvo scoffed and shook his head. Either Griff caught onto the bluff, or he was seriously secure in his confidence that whatever deal he had with the Bottle Street Gang protected him.

“Alright, old man,” Corvo muttered, standing up straight and crossing his arms over his chest. “We’ll get you that treatment.  _If_ we can find it.”

A grin found its way back onto Griff’s face. “I knew you’d come around,” he said. “Get me that treatment, and I promise this blueprint is yours.”

Soap huffed, shoving his hands back in his pockets as he started to turn for the exit. “We’ll be back later,” he muttered, and with that he turned and led the way back out onto Blood Ox Way, hearing Corvo’s footsteps behind him. Griff said nothing at their departure, lingering in his dusty old shop as the two men ventured back out into the streets.

“Is it really worth it?” Soap asked the moment they were outside, stopping at the door and giving Corvo a chance to catch up. “How would we even find it?”

Corvo sighed, reaching down to tug on his sleeves. “I don’t know,” he responded. He motioned towards the stairs further down the alley, and together he and Soap started forward, walking side by side. “We’ll find it if we find it and if we don’t, we don’t. That blueprint would be useful, but I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it if we can’t get our hands on it.”

Soap pursed his lips underneath his scarf. “It wouldn’t hurt to have it.”

Corvo stopped at the foot of the stairs, whipping around to face Soap. “You want that thing?” Corvo pulled his crossbow off his belt, holding it up. “If nothing else, Piero can just make you one of  _these._ ”

“A bow you wear on your wrist is lighter and cheaper to make than a bow you carry around on your belt,” Soap pointed out, continuing up the stairs with his eyes glued to Corvo’s mask. Corvo sighed, reattaching the crossbow to his belt as he followed Soap upwards. “And we have a chance to get it for  _free._ ” Soap paused. “Well, almost for free. We won’t have to pay any coin at least. I dunno about you, but I’m not getting paid. I’m gonna grab as much free or almost-free shite as I can.”

Corvo groaned as they reached the top of the stairs. “Whatever,” he sighed. “Like I said, we’ll get it if we get it, and if we don’t, we don’t. We don’t have all the time in the world.”

Soap didn’t respond, giving in with a shrug and following Corvo up to the low roof that would provide them a route above the streets. Some old boxes were still stacked nearby, shoved against the wall, and Corvo climbed them first, the old, rotten wood groaning under his weight as if it was in pain. Once Corvo was up, Soap followed, gingerly testing the boxes with one foot before stepping on them. The wood threatened to give way beneath him, and Soap made quick work of climbing the boxes and hauling himself onto the roof where Corvo patiently waited. Once topside, Corvo led the way across the roof to the old piping that wound along this building and the next, jumping down with little ceremony and carefully making his way along the wide metal pipes. Soap much more cautiously followed suit; the metal was a lot less slippery now that it wasn’t raining, but it was old and rusted and Soap didn’t want to test his luck this high off the ground.

The two men made their way slowly along the pipes, Soap’s shoulder brushing the wall of the brick building at his flank as they edged closer and closer towards Clavering Boulevard. It was eerily quiet just like it had been in the alleys, with only the sounds of distant river gulls to break the silence as they drew closer and closer to Watch-controlled territory. Soap and Corvo made it to the end of the piping, Clavering Boulevard—and the Watchmen patrolling it—now well within view below them.

“There’s a lot of guards out today,” Corvo mumbled, his voice muffled behind his mask as he craned his head in an attempt to get a good look at the street below. “There’s a full patrol down there, and that’s just what’s in sight. I’m sure there’s farther down the street, and Samuel warned us about there being a watchtower somewhere.”

Soap nodded, leaning around Corvo to get a good view. He couldn’t see as much as Corvo could from his position, but he was able to get a good glimpse of Clavering. He counted at least five Watchmen patrolling what was visible, and it was safe to assume there were more skulking around. Soap’s gaze traveled upwards, and he spied another guard standing on the third floor balcony of a residential building on the far side of the street; he was leaning against the railing, watching the streets just like Soap and Corvo were, his helmet glinting in the sunlight. Soap couldn’t see exactly what the guard was up to from this distance, but as long as he kept his head angled downwards, he wouldn’t be able to see what Soap and Corvo were doing, either.

“That must be Galvani’s apartment,” Corvo noted, leaning slightly forward to get a better view. “Agh, I could take us down there but we’d get spotted in an instant. All of those guards and that guard on the balcony would see our approach.”

 _No one said it’d be easy to break into some guy’s apartment in broad daylight._ Soap turned and pressed his back against the wall, deciding to let Corvo come up with a plan. Remembering the apple he’d taken earlier, Soap dug around in his pocket and uncovered it, picking bits of lint off the bitten portion before giving up and pulling out his combat knife. He carved the part that had come into contact with Griff’s mouth off the apple, letting the partially eaten piece fall to the alley several stories down.

“We’ll enter through the third floor,” Corvo started, unaware of what Soap was up to behind him, “and work our way down.” Soap pulled down his scarf, taking the chance to gulp in an unobstructed mouthful of air before lifting the apple to his mouth. “We’ll do a quick sweep of each floor and watch for guards and civilians. If present, we’ll use force, lethal or otherwise, only if absolutely necessary—”

_Crunch._

Corvo’s head whipped around at the sound of Soap biting into the apple. “...Soap, where did you get that?”

Soap shrugged. “Griff left it, so I took it.”

“Outsider’s eyes!” Corvo hissed. “We don’t have  _time_ for—”

Soap raised a brow at him and his teeth grazed the surface of the apple. “When was the last time we had fruit?”

“This. Morning.”

“Before then?”

No response.

“And do you have any idea when we’ll get some again?”

No response.

“Exactly.” Soap grinned, fiendishly satisfied at the way Corvo scoffed at him. “I dunno about you, but I was taught that the key to health is a balanced diet.” He took another big bite from the apple, a bit of the sweet juice escaping from the corner of his mouth.

“Give me  _that!”_ Corvo snapped, snatching the apple away and lifting his mask just enough to expose his mouth. He took one bite, then two, then shoved the apple back into Soap’s waiting hand, chewing loudly as he replaced his mask.

“Alright,” Corvo mumbled around his mouthful of apple, adjusting his mask before pointing towards Galvani’s apartment. Soap took another bite of the apple and shoved the meager remains into his pocket. “We’ll take out that guard on the balcony and get inside that way. We’re going to have to take to the rooftops”—he gestured upwards—“and cross over to Galvani’s place from above.”

Soap wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before securing his scarf back on his face, fitting it snugly over his nose and mouth. “Sounds good.”

“I’ll take us to the nearest rooftop.” Corvo faced Soap again and extended his right hand towards him, palm up. “Ready?”

Soap cast a brief glance upwards, spying the nearest rooftop—it was far too high and distant to even think about jumping to, but well within the range of Corvo’s ability. After a moment, he took Corvo’s hand.

“Ready.”

Corvo’s right hand closed around Soap’s left, his grip warm and firm. He turned away, extending his left hand towards the roof, and his Mark exploded into a display of blue and orange light, black mist snaking up his arm and gliding along his deep brown skin.

Soap eyed the Mark warily, the hair on the back of his neck rising as the light grew brighter. He closed his eyes, his nails digging into the back of Corvo’s hand.

_Here we go again._

Soap’s stomach dropped as he suddenly felt weightless and unbearably heavy at the same time, feeling nothing but emptiness under his boots for a split second before he landed on slanted shingles. In the few days that had passed since the last mission, Soap’s body had already forgotten what it was like to be transported with the Mark; he gulped in a deep breath, struggling to quell the nausea that rose in his throat.

There was a firm tug on Soap’s hand, encouraging him to open his eyes. He did so, watching as Corvo pointed towards another roof closer to Galvani’s apartment, the Mark on his hand still glowing.

_Two more jumps. Then we’re there._

Soap didn’t stop to appreciate how far they’d come or how high they now were, nodding and closing his eyes once again. The nauseating weightlessness returned and Soap felt the angle of the roof beneath him vanish, then shift. A few moments passed, and then there was another tug on his hand.

“Prepare yourself. The next one is very steep.”

Soap opened his eyes, staring straight ahead. They’d landed facing Galvani’s roof, the apartment much closer now but still too far for any attempt at a physical jump. The roof was indeed very steep; Soap would have to balance himself just right on arrival. One slip, and he’d fall four stories to the cobblestone below.

“Oh, Christ.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” Soap flexed his fingers, then gripped Corvo’s hand tighter than before. “Let’s get this over with.”

Corvo paused, perhaps picking up on Soap’s apprehension. He gently rubbed his thumb against the back of Soap’s hand, then extended his left hand once more.

The Mark lit up again, the blue and orange glow shimmering in the bright daylight. The world around Soap blurred, the weightlessness returning much stronger than before. His vision swam wildly for a moment, unable to make out distinct shapes or colors, and then snapped back into focus. Soap’s stomach surged and he found himself on Galvani’s roof, suddenly struggling to balance himself on the steep shingles. Corvo wavered, then steadied himself. His grip on Soap’s hand tightened as his companion fought for—and finally regained—his balance.

“Are you alright?”

Soap cleared his throat, focusing on steadying his breathing. “Aye. I’m fine.”

Corvo nodded, releasing Soap’s hand after a moment’s hesitation and turning towards the street. He slowly made his way across the roof, practically on all fours, as he struggled to keep his balance and stay low to avoid being seen. Soap waited until there was a good amount of space in between them before following, taking his time on the steep slant of the roof. His stomach jumped when a shingle, looser than its neighbors, threatened to give way under Soap’s boots; much to his relief, it didn’t, and Soap followed Corvo to the end of the roof where they peered downward together.

The third floor balcony was just a story below them, the guard lingering there in clear sight. He wasn’t leaning against the railing anymore, now strolling along the balcony with a cigarette in his hand.

“Damn,” Corvo muttered, and when Soap looked up he saw the crossbow now held tightly in Corvo’s hand. “I can’t get a good shot. His shoulders are too small a target.”

Soap spied the glass dart filled with green poison nested in the saddle of the crossbow. He looked back down on the guard, chewing on his lip as he thought of a way to incapacitate him, or at least distract him. The tartness of the apple still lingered in his mouth—

_The apple!_

Soap let out a low huff, digging in his pocket for the remains of the apple he and Corvo had shared. He elbowed his companion, showing him the apple once he’d gained Corvo’s attention and pointing down at the guard. Understanding, Corvo nodded, turning his head downwards and aiming his crossbow at the Watchman below.

Soap scooted closer to the edge of the roof, holding the apple out and squinting down at the guard and his gleaming helmet as he tried to get a good aim. After a few moments, he sucked in a breath and chucked the apple down at the guard—

 _Bonk._ Soap breathed out a sigh of relief as the apple hit its mark, the Watchman doubling over in surprise as the core collided with his helmet and bounced off with considerable momentum, landing somewhere out of sight. With a soft  _thwap,_ Corvo’s dart flew free, hitting the guard square in the back. The poison was fast-acting, and the guard crumpled to the ground face-first, the sleep dart lodged firmly in his back.

“Alright.” Corvo hurriedly hitched the crossbow back onto his belt, extending his hand towards Soap. “Let’s get in, get what we need, and get out.”

“Aye.” Soap firmly grasped Corvo’s hand, the two of them rising into a more upright position together, balancing carefully on the edge of the roof. Soap had little time to prepare himself before the nauseating blurriness and weightlessness returned and vanished all at once, and before he could blink he found himself crouching on the balcony just under a meter of where the guard’s body now lay. Corvo released Soap’s hand and stood, turning towards the door and placing his hand firmly on the dark wood.

“It’s clear,” he said after a moment. “I don’t see—” A pause. “Wait. There’s something there.”

Soap, remaining low, edged closer to the door, careful to stay out of sight of any wandering eyes from the street below. “Guards?”

“...No. Looks like…” Corvo fell into silence, then grabbed the door handle and turned it, pushing the door open and urging Soap inside. Soap, happy to escape from the exposed balcony, rushed inside, feeling Corvo’s presence close behind him.

The room was large, illuminated with large rectangular lights that hung from the ceiling, around which flies buzzed. The room was quiet, and Soap decided it was safe to stand up straight, rising completely upright—

As his gaze travelled downwards, it fell upon a body laid out on a large table in the middle of the room, strewn out amongst cluttered glass containers and instruments. Soap recoiled in shock, the sight of an abandoned corpse so nonchalantly left out in the open catching him by surprise; it hadn’t begun to smell yet, but flies already started to gather, the small creatures droning around and crawling on the body’s torn clothes and exposed, bloody skin.

“Christ,” Soap muttered, standing still by the door as Corvo closed it behind them. He looked around the room; save for the bookshelves, glass display cases, large desk, and obvious table in the middle of the room bearing the bloody corpse, the room and the small office just off it were completely empty, void of any guards or civilians.

“I don’t sense any other presence on this floor,” Corvo murmured, stepping further into the room with a hand on his crossbow. “But remain alert. I sense the presence of people below us.”

“Right.” Soap followed Corvo further into the room, stopping just beyond the edge of the table while his companion walked forward still, presumably to investigate the body.

Soap could get a better look now that he was close. The body couldn’t have been more than two or three days old, and despite the presence of flies the corpse was still largely in the same shape as it had been presumably immediately after death. The cold that penetrated the poorly-heated apartment did a good job of slowing the decomposition process and while there was an odor that made Soap’s nose wrinkle in disgust, it wasn’t overwhelming. The body belonged to a man, his clothes torn and matted to his body with blood along with his short blond beard and hair, his exposed flesh marred with wounds that could only be bites and missing chunks of skin and meat. Soap felt his face shift into a grimace, an acute sense of disgust crawling along his skin as he got a good look at the corpse’s torn and bloody flesh. Whatever had left these wounds was small in size but large in numbers; a swarm of rats was Soap’s first guess, but considering the circumstances, he found it hard to believe that the building would still be open if a swarm of rats large enough to take down a grown man had so much as passed through.

Corvo stepped up to the body, surveying it with his hands hovering a good distance over it. Spotting something, he reached into his coat and pulled out his sword, the blade still hidden within the hilt. He nudged the corpse’s arm to the side with the hilt of his sword, uncovering a card of some sort punched with holes and stained with blood.

“It’s an audiograph,” Corvo noted, “used to record and replay voice messages.” He picked it up with one hand and turned it over. “It’s got a name on it. Probably his.” Corvo turned his head towards the body. “He looks like Bottle Street.”

Soap let out a low sigh. “Guess we know now what happened to Slackjaw’s missing man.” He looked around, taking care to look for any signs of struggle. “There’s no blood anywhere,” he observed aloud, “and other than the body, this place is in good shape. You think they moved the body?”

“Probably. They’d have found it after he died, and they’re likely waiting for a chance to transport it elsewhere.” Corvo paused. “Or perhaps they’re leaving it here so Galvani can study it. If he’s making a treatment for the plague like Griff said, he’s a natural philosopher and likely would jump at the chance to dissect a body for study. Especially if the subject was killed by rats.”

Soap scowled. “Rats did this? Are you sure?”

Corvo tucked the audiograph and the hilt of his sword back into his coat. “Nothing else could’ve done this.” Soap could hear the frown in his voice. “But something doesn’t seem right.” He faced Soap. “If a swarm of rats this big had entered the building, why hasn’t it been quarantined yet?”

“Who knows?” Soap gestured towards the body. “Now we know what happened to Slackjaw’s man, and you got the evidence.” He tilted his head. “Now that  _that’s_ out of the way…”

Corvo sharply cocked his head to one side. “Soap, if you’re thinking about finding that treatment—”

Soap spread his arms out, gesturing vaguely towards his surroundings. “We’re right in the heart of Galvani’s lab,” he argued, “and”—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the office—“his office is right there. It wouldn’t hurt to do a little snooping around.”

Corvo let out a sharp exhale, crossing his arms. “We don’t have—Agh, whatever. Just make it quick.” He dropped his arms to his sides, marching past Soap in the direction of the office. “We’ll take the office first. If we don’t find anything in less than thirty minutes, we’re gone.”

“Fair enough.”

Soap followed Corvo into the office, allowing Corvo to take the desk while Soap himself made for another table against the far wall, cluttered with books, journals, and more glass containers. Soap bypassed the books entirely, pushing aside various containers and vials—and carefully avoiding the large jug within which a fleshy pink form floated in translucent liquid—in order to reach the various journals strewn about on the worktable. Behind him, Soap heard Corvo rummaging through the desk, pushing aside paper and other clutter as he searched for any clues as to Galvani’s plague treatment. Soap thumbed through the journals left behind on the journal, quickly skimming the pages and any loose papers for any sign of anything even mentioning a treatment for plague—

“I found something.”

Soap looked up, one of Galvani’s journals still in hand as Corvo held up a piece of paper. “That was fast.”

“It’s a letter he sent to the guards in charge of keeping his house. Apparently, he’s been away”—Corvo tilted his head—“conducting tests.”

“Well?” Soap set down the journal in his hand. “What’s it say?”

There was a stretch of silence as Corvo lowered the letter and skimmed it. A sigh sounded from behind his mask and he shook his head.

“Testing was a failure. All test subjects got sick and he scrapped the recipe. He says the last copy’s in his safe, and he intends to destroy it when he returns. He won’t be attempting another until he does more research.” Corvo lowered the letter. “What now?”

Soap hummed under his breath. “We could find that recipe.”

“You mean waste our time trying to crack open a safe and, if we  _do_ get it, hand Griff a recipe that will make people sick?” Corvo set the letter down on the desk. “Damn it, use your head!”

Soap frowned. “Now, hold on.” Soap strode up to the desk. “You go find that safe and see if you can crack it. I’ve got an idea.”

Corvo physically recoiled. “What kind of  _idea?!”_

“Just trust me.” Soap shooed Corvo off to one side and, once given space, began to rummage through the drawers. “I’ve got this. You seen a pen anywhere?”

Corvo quickly caught on. “For the love of— _Outsider’s eyes,_ we don’t have  _time_ for—”

“It’ll just take a sec,” Soap assured, procuring a pen from one of the drawers. “Just find a way to get into that safe and meet me back up here. I’m gonna find some paper.”

Corvo hesitated a moment, then relented, departing with a heavy sigh and a shake of his head. Satisfied, Soap sat in the chair positioned behind the desk. He found a piece of paper and, using the letter Corvo had left on the desk, got straight to work.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t long before Corvo returned, striding into the room with an aura of impatience smothering the air around him. Soap looked up when his companion firmly placed a piece of paper down on the desk, the rigidness of his actions giving away the sheer effort it took for Corvo to not just slam it down in front of Soap’s face.

“Here it is,” Corvo bit out, and Soap reached over, grabbing the paper with the pen still in his hand.

“Perfect! I can use this to make my finishing touches.”

“Soap, what are you—”

“Shut up a second and let me concentrate.” Soap set the paper down next to his own work, returning to his writing. “Go keep watch by the door. I’ll come fetch you when I’m gone.”

Corvo let out a snort but didn’t protest further, leaving Soap to finish his work.

 

* * *

 

Soap abandoned the desk once he was done, pocketing Galvani’s pen and carrying his finished work out to the hallway-facing doorway where Corvo now paced impatiently, keeping watch while he waited for his companion. He stopped when he noticed Soap approach, crossing his arms expectantly.

“Well?”

With a grin, Soap held out the paper. Corvo snatched it from him and began reading, turning his back on Soap. After a few moments, he whipped back around.

“What the hell is this.”

“It’s the recipe.”

Corvo held up the paper. “This is a waste of time!” he hissed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull here but we’re running out of  _time_ —”

“Look closer.”

The silence Corvo fell into was ice cold as he turned back around, taking a few more moments to read the altered recipe again. When he was done, he turned back around, this time with less irritation in his movements.

“...Some of these ingredients don’t exist,” Corvo said slowly, holding the paper with both hands. “And some of them...directly counteract each other. Even if Griff tried to make this treatment without the nonexistent ingredients, it would be completely ineffective, like sugar water—Soap, how did you know this?”

“When you hang around a genius who invented one of the treatments for plague, you tend to pick up a few things.”

“You even mimicked his handwriting.” Corvo’s head angled downwards towards the paper. “This is ingenious.”

“Aye, well, thank me later.” Soap jerked his head towards the door leading back out to the balcony. “Let’s get going.”

 

* * *

 

Soap and Corvo made their way back to Blood Ox Way, sparing no time in crossing the rooftops and making their way back down to the back alleys of the Distillery District. They made for Griff’s shop first, finding the old man inside sitting on a stool he’d dragged up to the counter. Griff had been picking through a tin of brined fish, and when he noticed the return of the masked duo he leaped to his feet, licking sauce off his fingers and wiping his hands on the front of his shirt as he walked around to the front of the counter.

“Well?” he pressed. “D’ya got it?”

“Aye.” Soap produced the altered recipe, carefully folded, from one of his pockets, holding it out to the old shopkeeper. “It’s all yours.”

Griff’s eyes lit up when he spied the recipe and he strode up to Soap, taking the paper from him and quickly unfolding it. With a wide grin he read the recipe, his eyes scanning the paper—however, the more he read, the more his grin ebbed away, soon replaced with a deep frown.

“This is useless.”

Soap blinked, crossing his arms. “What do you mean?”

Griff glared up at him, holding up the paper. “This is useless,” he repeated. “Some of these ingredients don’t  _exist,_ and the others…” He looked at the paper again with a scowl. “I can’t make this. No one is gonna buy it. This is just a worthless piece of paper.”

“You wanted the recipe,” Soap replied, “so we brought you the recipe.”

Griff looked back up at Soap, narrowing his eyes. “...Are you playing with me?”

“You callin’ me a liar?” Soap tilted his head, taking a step towards the shopkeeper. “You sure you’re in any position to do that? We brought you the recipe, so cough up the blueprint. A deal’s a deal.”

Griff leaned away from Soap, eyeing him cautiously. His gaze shifted when Corvo stepped beside Soap, the two of them together much taller and broader than the old man before them. After a few moments, Griff let out a sigh, crumpling up the recipe and shoving it into his pocket.

“Fine,” he mumbled, turning and trudging back behind the counter. He produced the folded piece of paper in which the blueprint was stored and walked back up to Soap and Corvo, offering it to them once they were within reach.

“Would you mind taking it out of that paper for us?” Soap gestured towards himself and Corvo. “We need to be able to fit it in our pockets.”

Griff pursed his lips but said nothing, undoing the twine holding the paper together and dropping it to the floor. He unfolded the large paper and gently pulled the blueprint free, holding that out to Soap and Corvo instead. Corvo took it, quickly examining it before, satisfied, he folded it into a small square and tucked it into one of the pockets in his coat.

“Thank you, Griff.”

Griff waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, ambling back to his stool behind the counter. “You got what you want, now get going. Unless you’re planning on buying somethin’.”

“No.” Corvo turned for the door. “Our business is done here.” With that, he jerked his chin in the direction of the street and started for the door, Soap following close behind without another glance towards the old shopkeeper.

 

* * *

 

Soap and Corvo were able to find their own way back to the old Dunwall Distillery, picking their path through the abandoned alleys without the help of any of Slackjaw’s guides. Corvo took the lead once they arrived at the yard that sprawled before the towering Distillery, cutting a straight path between the clumps of gang members that gathered in small islands scattered throughout the yard. While the air surrounding the members of the Bottle Street Gang was still heavy with animosity, the two of them drawing wary and aggressive stares alike, Soap was relieved to see that Slackjaw’s men still had no interest in initiating any sort of confrontation themselves. One of the men that had guided Soap and Corvo here before was waiting by the door leading inside, and he waved them closer when he saw them approach.

“You lookin’ for Slackjaw?” he asked once Soap and Corvo drew close enough to hear.

“Yes.” From the folds of his coat, Corvo produced the audiograph taken from the body in Galvani’s apartment, holding it up so that the man before them could see. “We found this.”

The man’s brows shot up and he snatched the audiograph from Corvo’s hand, turning it over in his own as he studied it closely. He found the name written on the side of the card, running his fingers over the inked lettering as he read it aloud. “Crawley…” The man’s brows furrowed in a pained expression, his face twisting into a grimace. “Aw, shit.”

Soap and Corvo exchanged a brief glance before turning their attention back to their former guide, who now looked up at them with his brows still turned upwards. “We’d better bring this to Slackjaw,” he muttered. “Follow me.”

Turning away, the man strode inside the Distillery, the hand holding the audiograph dangling at his side. Corvo and Soap followed close behind, Soap tugging on the sleeves of his coat as he and his companion were led further into the Distillery. Rather than taking them into the belly of the Distillery like last time, Slackjaw’s man made a sharp turn and led them into a smaller room just before the Distillery’s heart; upon entering it, Soap quickly recognized the room as a control room, with shelves and lockers lining the walls. At the front of the room was a control panel that faced the main part of the Distillery, visible through a window and accessible through a balcony; standing in front of the control panel was Slackjaw, his back to his guests as he fiddled with the different buttons and levers on the panel.

“Sir?” the man called out and Slackjaw turned around to face him, his brows raising as his gaze fell upon the gang member and the masked duo trailing him.

“You’re back!” Slackjaw’s gaze traveled downwards, spying the audiograph in the man’s hand. “What’s this?”

“They found it at Galvani’s place. It’s Crowley’s.”

Slackjaw’s brows knitted together as he was handed the audiograph, his thumb brushing against the dried blood smeared on the off-white card. “So he’s—”

“Dead,” Corvo put in. “We found his body along with the audiograph.”

Slackjaw sighed. “So I guess I was right about Galvani, eh?”

“Maybe not,” Corvo responded. “Galvani himself isn’t there, and hasn’t been for a while. It wasn’t the guards who did him in, either.”

Slackjaw narrowed his eyes. “Then what did?”

“Rats. From the state of his body, a well-sized swarm took him down.”

The gang member tilted his head. “Hey, I know Galvani likes to fuck around with them plague rats. Maybe it was him after all?”

“Nah.” Slackjaw shook his head, turning the audiograph over in his hands. “Galvani’s one of them weird natural philosophers, sure, but that ain’t him. He’d have just let the guards do the work for him.” He sighed. “So, Crowley’s dead. That’s too bad. Still”—he looked up at Soap and Corvo—“a deal’s a deal, and Slackjaw never backs down from a deal.”

Slackjaw handed Crawley’s audiograph to the man before him. “Take this to my office,” he ordered, and with a low “yessir” the man quickly departed, leaving Slackjaw alone with his guests. He dug around in his pocket for a moment before producing a small object, handing it to Corvo. Soap peered down at it, trying to get a good look—

“A key?”

“Aye,” Slackjaw replied with a nod. “It ain’t for the Golden Cat, no. This key’s for the Captain’s Chair.”

Corvo looked down at the key resting in his palm before he lifted his head, facing Slackjaw. “This helps us how?”

Slackjaw leaned back against the control panel, crossing his arms over his chest. “The Captain’s Chair is an old hotel in this district,” he explained, “abandoned with the plague gutted this part o’ town.” He raised a finger, pointing at the key. “Use that and take the stairs to the top. You can use the roof to get into the Golden Cat brothel.”

Soap raised a brow. “Rooftop access?” He cast a glance Corvo’s way. “That’ll make gettin’ in far easier.”

Slackjaw’s expression shifted into a grin and he spread his arms, gesturing towards nothing in particular. “See that? Slackjaw keeps a bargain. Just as good as them men who run the city.” His grin broadened. “Maybe a little better. You think about that.”

Corvo pocketed the key. “We will.”

“Great. Now maybe we can help each other out again.” Slackjaw crossed his arms again, cocking his head to one side as his gaze shifted between Soap and Corvo. “A favor for a favor.”

“We’re running low on time here, Slackjaw,” Corvo warned, his voice falling low. “We don’t have time to be running errands.”

“This ain’t an errand. Think of it as”—Slackjaw reached up and scratched at his chin—”A trade. You do somethin’ for me, and I’ll do somethin’ for you.”

Soap narrowed his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

Slackjaw’s grin disappeared, replaced with a thoughtful look as he placed his hands on his hips. “There’s an art dealer, name of Bunting,” he explained, “who’s gonna be at the Cat’s reopening tonight. He’s got particular tastes, or so I’ve been told by some of the ladies.” Slackjaw gestured vaguely as he spoke, his head tilting to one side. “Got some pretty fancy stuff locked away at his place, and the only thing preventing me from nabbing all that loot is the combination to his safe.”

Corvo crossed his arms. “And what will you do for us in return?”

A toothy grin spread on Slackjaw’s lips and he gestured widely again. “Bring me that combination, my masked friends,” he said, “and I’ll take care of the Pendleton brothers for you. Just like that. You ain’t never even gotta touch ‘em. And I promise, I won’t kill em and no one’ll ever see ‘em again.” Slackjaw leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Now if that ain’t a deal,” he added, “Slackjaw don’t know what is.”

Soap raised a brow. All they would have to do is find the combination, and they wouldn’t have to worry about killing the Pendletons? That sounded too good to be true, but considering Slackjaw’s insistence on sticking to bargains so far, Soap assumed that it had to be. Yet, the Pendleton brothers weren’t the only ones he and Corvo were after; they still had to retrieve Emily, and they couldn’t be running around in the back alleys of the Distillery District doing favors for Slackjaw with the ten-year-old daughter of the Empress in tow.

“Sorry, Slackjaw.” Corvo’s voice interrupted Soap’s train of thought. “That seems like a nice offer but I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.”

Slackjaw blinked. “You haven’t even heard what I plan to do to ‘em.”

Corvo hesitated, turning to face Soap. Soap responded to his silent question with a shrug, and after a moment Corvo faced Slackjaw once more. “...Go on.”

“Ah, it’s only natural that you’d be curious, right?” Slackjaw crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his bicep. “See, them Pendletons got these mines. Have hundreds of souls workin’ down there, half a mile deep below ground. Half of ‘em are slaves, maybe more, all worked to death mining for silver.” Slackjaw’s teeth bared as his face shifted into a sneer, his brows arching as he gestured towards his head. “So I’m gonna shave their heads,” he hissed, “cut out their tongues, and put ‘em to work in their own  _stinking_ mines.” His sneer fell away, a scowl crossing the crime boss’ features. “Then they gonna see life from a different angle. What do you say to that?”

Soap’s brow furrowed and he narrowed his eyes, casting a wary glance Corvo’s way. His companion was silent, perhaps seriously contemplating Slackjaw’s offer. Soap knew nothing of the Pendleton twins beyond what he heard from those around him; they were the Lord Regent’s cruel, manipulative lapdogs, and their silver was mined with the labor and suffering of hundreds of slaves shoved deep underground.

Soap’s final goal before he came to Dunwall was to put a much quicker end to a man who had committed much more vile crimes. He had no qualms against giving someone like the Pendletons a harsh lesson in reality, especially if  _he_ didn’t have to be the one dishing it out in the first place. Despite what Slackjaw’s plans were, he had no love—or pity—for the Lord Regent’s slave-owning sycophants.

“...Alright, Slackjaw,” Corvo said slowly, breaking the silence that had settled over the control room. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He paused. “There’s an issue, though.”

Slackjaw raised a brow. “And what’s that?”

“The Pendletons aren’t our only target,” Corvo elaborated. “We’re tasked with...retrieving a package from the Golden Cat and bringing it to a safe place. Once we go into the Cat, we can’t leave without the package, and once we have it, we can’t bring it anywhere besides where we need it to go. We can’t let anyone see us with it, not even you or your men.” Corvo placed his hands on his hips. “Both of us need to be accompanying it at all times, so we can’t send one person with the combination.” He angled his head forward. “How do you propose we solve that?”

“A package, eh?” Slackjaw frowned, reaching up to scratch at his moustache. “And you can’t be seen? I think I got an idea.” Slackjaw gestured vaguely, signaling for some location far away from the Distillery. “There’s a VIP exit that’ll take you to the streets. It’s hidden well, so if I send one of my men there, I could have him take the combination from one of you while the other and your ‘package’ can stay close and out of sight. The exit’s in the basement; it ain’t hard to find.”

“Simple enough,” Soap muttered, turning in time to see Corvo nod at him.

“Agreed,” Corvo added. “That’s something we can do. And one more thing.”

Slackjaw let his arms drop to his sides. “Yes?”

“We’re going to need directions to the Captain’s Chair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my friends @akivakun and @retinaut on Tumblr for beta reading this chapter!
> 
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> Remember to check out [@callofhonorblog](http://callofhonorblog.tumblr.com/) if you wanna discuss Call of Honor, ask questions, or just watch me talk, share art, and more!
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> Thank you for supporting me!
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> Edit: Gave up on chapter summaries. We're going in blind boys.


	15. The Golden Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor Edit: 12/07/17

_I can’t stay here forever._

The thought echoed through Makarov’s mind, playing over and over again in his head as he folded and unfolded the corner of the paper Emily had given him. He stared down at his crudely drawn likeness, paying no attention to the scratching of pen against paper directly across from him.

_I can’t stay here forever._

He would be discovered sooner or later. Perhaps the people who routinely provided Emily with food and drink would discover him. Or perhaps her captors, come to collect her and move her elsewhere, would discover him. Makarov wasn’t a fool; the child told him nothing of why she was here, but it was clear her presence here was due to some ulterior motive. No one kept a young child prisoner in a dark, cold room for no reason. Emily was no doubt a pawn in someone’s great plan, and once that plan was ready to progress into action, it was likely that she would be moved and Makarov’s presence would be uncovered.

Emily had made it very clear that Makarov was not to be seen by anyone. What the consequences of his discovery would be, however, neither he nor she knew.

Precious time was slipping by with each moment Makarov sat and allowed himself to rot in this room. He wasn’t getting any stronger; he was able to stomach a bit more of the food Emily shared with him, but it wasn’t enough to sustain him for long. The chill in this room seeped into his bones, and his gloves and the remains of his jacket ultimately did little to protect his weakened state from the cold. He felt better than he did when he first arrived, wracked with pain and barely able to make sense of his surroundings, but as long as he was stuck here, this was about as far as his body would recover. He needed to go elsewhere and find some other place to hole up where he could regain his strength without fear of discovery.

He wasn’t in Dubai anymore, that was for certain. Besides the information that Emily had given him—information that made no sense—Makarov hadn’t the slightest idea of where he was or how he survived Price’s assault on the roof of the Hotel Oasis. Part of him wasn’t sure he had even survived; perhaps he’d died and this was an afterlife he’d been dropped into. Certainly not Heaven, but not quite Hell either. Perhaps he did survive, but barely—but then, why was he here and not imprisoned somewhere, awaiting trial? Perhaps he was comatose and this was all a dream. Perhaps he was brought here by some other unknown force.

Escaping would give Makarov the chance to figure out where he was. Once he had a solid idea of his location, he would be able to decide what to do next—and maybe find out how he got here in the first place.

With his potential location came the question of a guide. Emily had named countries and cities that didn’t exist on Earth. She mentioned an Empire. If this place was truly what she said it was, and not the imagination of a small child, then Makarov would be hopelessly lost. He would have no idea where to go or what to do next, and without a guide he would rot alone in the city anyway—and that is where Emily came in.

It was possible that Emily would know where to hide, or at least know to point out potential dangers and potential advantages. If she was able to escape from her captors, she could possibly lead Makarov to whichever person or location she trusted most, which would prove an advantage to them both.

Makarov looked up when he was suddenly aware of the silence that fell over the room and glanced at Emily. She was sitting cross-legged directly across from him, her pen now on the floor beside her paper as she reached for the remains of a piece of bread. She looked up briefly, pausing when she met Makarov’s gaze. She gave a small, polite smile, then turned her attention back onto her food.

That little girl saved him. Had she not hidden Makarov, he’d have been discovered—and he didn’t want to know what would’ve happened if that had come to pass. She fed him, sheltered him, kept him company. Makarov didn’t care much for children, but he appreciated the fact that she treated him like a friend before she even knew his name. She was naive, he decided, and lonely. She needed a friend, an ally, a protector.

She needed a way out.

 _A favor for a favor._ Emily saved Makarov, and now it was Makarov’s turn to save Emily.

But how?

Makarov was weak. He had no weapons. He had no idea of his location. He had no idea of who he might go up against. His chances of escape became slimmer and slimmer each day; he needed to act and he needed to act  _now,_ with precision, or else whatever plan he came up with would fail and he and Emily both would suffer the consequences.

Makarov looked down at the drawing Emily had given him, the child’s depiction of his blue and green eyes staring back up at him. After a moment, he folded up the piece of paper and tucked it away in the pocket of his jacket.

_First thing’s first. I need a weapon._

Makarov took a deep breath, shifting upright from where he’d been leaning against the wall. Slowly, he rose to his feet, taking note of the way his legs swayed as he carefully steadied himself. Emily looked up, blinking owlishly at him as Makarov took a hesitant step forward; his balance was slowly returning and, satisfied, he made his way to the table that served as his sanctuary.

The gap beneath the desk was concealed with heavy embroidered red curtains, carefully positioned so that no part of Makarov would be visible as long as he hid underneath the desk. He looked up. While there were curious fixtures mounted high on the wall, there were no curtain rods as far as Makarov could see; not here, and not elsewhere when he took a moment to cast a quick glance around the room. Vaguely, he recalled the night of his arrival when Emily had brought down the curtains to conceal him; the curtains hadn’t been on the desk like this before, and he remembered there being a loud noise before the heavy fabric was thrown over the opening beneath the desk. Something  _had_ been holding it up before—

“Mr. Makarov?”

Makarov glanced over his shoulder, looking down at Emily. She was still seated on the floor, holding her piece of bread in front of her face as she stared wide-eyed up at him.

“Emily, how were these curtains held up?”

She blinked. “The curtains? Oh!” She pointed towards the highest part of the wall directly before Makarov. “There were curtain rods,” she explained, “but they broke when I pulled the curtains down. They fell somewhere.”

“Thank you.” Makarov turned his attention back on the desk and the curtains draped over it. He pushed aside the curtains on top of the desk; there was no sign of the rods, and Makarov carefully replaced the fabric and dropped to his knees. He lifted the curtains and crawled into the open space beneath the desk. In the darkness, Makarov blindly felt around for something _, anything_ —

 _Aha!_ His fingers bumped against something hard and round. He grabbed the object and pulled it towards himself, the sound of metal scraping against wood and dragging against his mattress reaching his ears. Makarov backed out from under the desk with the rod in tow, holding it up once he was free of his hiding space so he could study it in the dim light.

The end of the rod was jagged, snapped in half from when Emily pulled down the curtains some time ago. It was clearly not enough to sustain the weight of the curtains, and yet…

Makarov thumped the rod against his gloved hand. It was hollow but solid enough material to be used as a makeshift weapon. He could use it like a baton, he decided, and the broken end would be good for jabbing—

“Mr. Makarov? What are you doing?”

Makarov didn’t look up from the rod in his hands, firmly thumping his palm with it a second time. “You want to get out of here, right?”

There was a moment of silence as Emily hesitated. “...Yeah.”

Makarov turned around, his gaze meeting Emily’s as his fingers wrapped tightly around the end of the rod. “I have an idea.”

 

* * *

 

A sharp wind swept over the rooftops high above the streets of Dunwall, carrying with it the stench of the Wrenhaven and the biting iciness of winter. A shiver ran down Soap’s spine, the chill seeping through his clothes as he crouched down on the shallowly angled roof, tugging his hood as far as it could go over his head. The sunlight bearing down on him did little to warm him up, and Soap rubbed his hands together as he waited for the wind to pass, staring out at the scene before him.

He and Corvo had found their way to the Captain’s Chair thanks to Slackjaw’s directions, making it inside and up to the roof with little trouble. Corvo himself was kneeling directly beside Soap, close to the edge of the roof with a crudely drawn map in his hands. He studied the map—drawn by Slackjaw himself, a parting gift and a final favor—and occasionally looked up to glance at their target, which was so tantalizingly close and yet so far away.

The Golden Cat. It was a massive building, constructed of smooth white stone with a looming copper dome arching high in the sky. Patches of the dome’s original reddish-orange glimmered through the bright green patina that had longed formed on the metal’s surface, the exposed copper reflecting the bright light thrown by the afternoon sun. Perched at the top of the dome was a golden cat that gleamed in the sunlight, its curved back and arched tail a stark silhouette against the blue sky. From where he sat, Soap could see a yard that sprawled before the Golden Cat; the patchy grass was trimmed short, and various flowering shrubs trimmed in round shapes lined the edges of the yard. There was a patio as well, exposed to the sun and walled off with decorative copper bars long turned green with patina and ivy. If anyone was there, however, Soap couldn’t see.

The rooftop provided an excellent view of the Cat’s surroundings. A few apartment buildings and old businesses were directly adjacent to the Golden Cat, the red brick of one building meeting the shining white walls of the brothel. A sizeable patrol of City Watchmen lingered in the street below, each guard positioned so that not a single patch of cobblestone was left unguarded. A few occasionally lingered to converse with one another, and one stopped to talk to a woman clad in deep purple, her bare legs protruding from the bottom of a long coat; beyond that, however, the remaining guards below were at strict attention. Crossing the street without being seen would be tricky, if such a feat were even possible at all.

“So,” Soap began, rubbing his hands together in the hopes of warming up whatever his fingerless gloves didn’t cover, “have any idea on getting inside?”

Corvo hummed as he lifted the map to get a better look, tightening his grip on it when a sudden burst of wind threatened to tear it from his grasp. “This map shows us a few potential entrances,” he explained, handing the map over to Soap once the wind died down. “There’s one in particular that I think is our best shot.”

Soap took the map from Corvo and examined it, peering down at the messy linework and scrawled notes. Slackjaw had been kind enough to take the time to sketch out the exterior of the Golden Cat and her neighbors on the front of the map; when Soap flipped over to the back, he was met with crudely-drawn floor plans detailing each floor of the brothel, with the most important rooms labelled. Turning back to the front, Soap studied the Cat’s exterior; Slackjaw had noted the apartment buildings and old businesses adjacent to the Cat, detailing several paths around and through them.

One path in particular caught Soap’s eye. Of the several buildings facing the street, there was one—an old business that was directly accessible from both ground level and a balcony facing the street. Soap glanced up, finding the sketched building’s counterpart across the street below. Satisfied, he returned his attention to the map. Slackjaw’s notes described it as run-down and abandoned, and he had drawn a thick arrow going through it and the two apartment buildings behind it, the last of the apartment buildings sharing a wall with the Golden Cat itself. The arrow ended in the last apartment building, with no other notes or arrows leading elsewhere. Soap’s gaze travelled to the Golden Cat itself, where Slackjaw had an arrow pointing down towards the flat expanse of roof beside and below the towering copper dome.

“You mean this one?” Soap pointed out the path through the buildings, frowning when Corvo nodded. “I see. Slackjaw pointed out the roof here too, so there must be a way to the roof from there.”

“I’m thinking that there must be a path that allows us to go through all three buildings without exposing us to the streets or the yard,” Corvo put in, “and in the last apartment, there must be a way to cross over from the top floor to the roof of the Cat. It’s the least exposed and possibly most secure of the potential ways in, but…” Corvo paused.

Soap arched a brow at Corvo. “But what?”

“I’m not sure what we’ll find if we take that path,” Corvo explained. “It’s safe to assume that Slackjaw’s men use it frequently, if Slackjaw has taken the time to point it out. There might be traps or other obstacles left behind by the Bottle Street Gang to keep trespassers out.” Corvo sniffed. “Or rats. Swarms of rats tend to gather in abandoned buildings.”

Soap huffed. “We’ll just have to be careful, then,” he mumbled, gazing out at the Golden Cat. He absently folded the map and handed it back over to Corvo as his gaze travelled along the Cat and the apartments that he recognized from Slackjaw’s map, then back to the abandoned business that faced the street. He couldn’t see the ground floor entrance, as it was obscured by the balcony that protruded from the second floor. The way inside from the balcony, however, was clearly open; it was just a matter of getting there.

“We’re not going to bother trying to navigate the streets,” Corvo stated, tucking the map inside of his coat and rising to his feet. “Not with that many guards around. I’m certain that my Mark can take us as far as that balcony, and we’ll have our way in from there.”

“Sounds good enough.”

Silently, Corvo stepped around Soap and moved further along the edge of the roof, positioning himself closer to their destination. Soap stood and made his way to Corvo’s right side, then offered his left hand. Corvo took it in his right, his Mark already glowing as he extended his left hand towards the balcony.

There was no warning, no time to even close his eyes before Soap suddenly found himself in that familiar, gut-wrenching weightlessness, his stomach surging as the world around him turned into a smear of colors and indiscernible shapes. Not a second passed before everything snapped back into place and Soap was stumbling into the remains of the abandoned business on the other side of the street, a firm hand tugging him out of the sunlight and into a dimly-lit cloud of dust.

It took a moment for Soap to orient himself, releasing his hold on Corvo’s hand as he blinked and tried to shake the confusion from his head. The inside of the building was dark, the windows facing the street shuttered and the doors leading to other rooms boarded shut. In the center of the room was a mountain of old, rotten wood and debris; when Soap looked up, he saw that a portion of the ceiling had collapsed, leading to the third floor from where a small, flickering light could be seen. The afternoon light that poured in from the balcony drowned in the shadows of the furthest corners of the room, a heavy cloud of dust drifting in the air around him and coating the old furniture left behind by the building’s long-absent owners.

Soap took a moment to breathe, allowing the nausea that had overtaken him to subside while Corvo walked ahead of him, stepping towards the portion of collapsed ceiling that would provide their way up. Sensing Soap’s absence behind him, Corvo turned around and tilted his head as his companion.

“Well, are you coming or what?”

Soap huffed. “At least give me a second to prepare next time.”

Corvo said nothing. Soap didn’t like the way his grinning mask seemed to be mocking him.

With a sigh, Soap walked further into the room and paused at the foot of the mountain of wood and debris, gesturing for Corvo to go up first. Corvo turned and scaled the pile, picking an easy path along the collapsed ceiling and disappearing on the third floor. Soap climbed after him, wincing each time the debris shifted beneath his weight.

As he climbed, Soap kept the flickering light above him in view; once at the top, the only source of the light on the third floor—a candle holder that held three low-burning candles—came into view. The candle holder was sitting on the floor in the back of the room, positioned next to a tall wooden panel that leaned over a hole in the brick wall. Through the hole Soap could see another light flickering in the darkness, dim yet present.

Corvo glanced over his shoulder at Soap, one hand coming to rest on the crossbow that hung from his belt while the other slipped into his ammo pouch. Soap nodded and reached for the pistol strapped to his chest, pulling it free.

Corvo crept forward, lifting his crossbow and loading a bolt in the saddle. Once armed, he carefully pushed aside the wooden panel with one hand, aiming his crossbow into the darkness of the next room. Weapon raised, he stepped through the hole, taking care around the bricks piled on the floor. Soap took a moment to check his gun, then followed Corvo into the next room.

The next room was far darker, the candle holder in the far corner of the tiny space—holding two candles, still high with wax—providing the only light. There was a sharp turn at the end of the room, perhaps leading to a separate hall or a flight of stairs; Corvo stood just before it, the candlelight illuminating the finger that threatened to squeeze the trigger.

“Come out.” Corvo’s voice rang through the empty room. “And don’t try anything funny.”

There was a second where nothing happened, then two, then three. The old wooden floors groaned with heavy footsteps just beyond the small room, and a moment later a tall, wiry form stepped into view. The stranger, dressed in old, faded clothes and a worn leather jacket a size too big, eyed Soap and Corvo from beneath the brim of a black bowler hat, the cleaver in his hand glinting in the candlelight.

“You one of Slackjaw’s men?” Soap asked. The stranger narrowed his eyes.

“Might be. You them Masked Felons from the posters?”

“Might be.” Soap paused, then lowered his gun. “Relax. We’re just passing through.”

The stranger paused, not moving as he watched Soap holster his gun and Corvo lower his crossbow; then, with a defeated shrug, he sheathed his cleaver, crossing his arms over his chest. “A’right,” he grumbled. “Where are you headed?”

Corvo answered this time. “The Golden Cat.”

“How’d you know this place’ll take you there?”

“Slackjaw sent us this way.”

“No shit. What’d he send you for?”

“That’s between us and him.”

The stranger sniffed. “Fair enough. I reckon you’d like some directions?”

“That would be nice,” Soap replied. “Slackjaw was a bit vague.”

“Hm. Alright.” The stranger rubbed his nose, then turned and pointed down the direction from where he came. “Go down that hall,” he instructed, “and take the stairs to the second floor. In apartment 200-B5 there’s another hole in the wall in the bathroom that’ll take you into the next apartment over—watch the tripwire or you’ll get a faceful of fire. Leave that apartment, take a left, and climb all the way to the top floor. There’s a door that’ll take you into the storage closet, and from there you can get to the Cat.”

Corvo tilted his head. “Will that take us directly inside?”

The stranger shook his head. “Nah, it’ll take you to the roof. There’s a trapdoor that leads straight to the dormitories; that’s your way in.”

“Thank you.” Corvo turned to face Soap and jerked his head towards the hall before stepping past the stranger with a nod and disappearing into the darkness. Nodding his own thanks, Soap fell in step behind him, following Corvo deeper into the abandoned apartment.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Soap noticed when he dropped into the dormitories was the cold, a heavy draft permeating the stagnant air of the uppermost floor of the Golden Cat. Soap huffed, tugging on the scarf over his face as he stepped further into the room, a thump sounding behind him as Corvo dropped into the brothel after him. The roof entrance had been unguarded, leading straight into a foyer just beyond the dormitories themselves, accessible via a hall to Soap’s left. Stuffed into the corners of the foyer were piles of old, soiled mattresses, some of them torn and exposing the feathers and stuffing within. Just before Soap was a flight of stairs leading to the floors below, ceiling lights illuminating the foyer and the path downstairs.

“We need to find the Madam first.” A metallic clatter sounded from behind Soap and Corvo stepped in front of him, sword drawn and blade at the ready. “She’ll be able to tell us where Emily and Bunting are.”

“You know where to find her?”

“Her office is on the second floor. Stay on your guard.” With that, Corvo turned on his heel and strode forward, his long coat billowing behind him as he advanced swiftly down the stairs. Soap freed his gun from where it was strapped across his chest and followed, putting some space between himself and Corvo as they descended the stairs.

The stairwell was empty save for the old discarded furniture shoved into the corners of each landing and the framed paintings and sketches that adorned the faded brown walls. Corvo led the way down to the third floor then stopped abruptly at the foot of the stairs, signaling for Soap to do the same. He quickly saw why; the third floor itself was nothing but a landing and a door leading to some unknown room to the left, while the right wall was completely open, exposing everything beyond the staircase to the floor below. Yellow light poured in from the second floor, gold moulding glittering along what was visible of the red walls. There was no way to reach the descending stairs without exposing themselves to whoever lingered on the second floor; if someone happened to look up, their cover would be blown.

Soap waited as Corvo crept up to the open wall and, with his body mostly hidden, carefully peered down, studying the room below from his vantage point just at the end of the stairs. After a moment, Corvo waved his hand towards the descending staircase, not moving from his spot. Soap continued forward, slipping past Corvo and heading down the stairs to the second floor.

Thankfully, the next floor was less exposed, a metal door leading into the next room to Soap’s right shut tight. There was a window providing a view of the room beyond, but not much could be seen from where Soap stood. Directly across from that door was another closed metal door to Soap’s left; there was no window, but there was a sign secured just beside the door itself adorned with heavy black lettering.

_The Madam’s office._

Corvo’s shoulder brushed against Soap’s as he stepped past, heading straight for the door on the left. He faced the door and paused just beyond it, tilting his head as if studying it. Understanding what he was doing, Soap approached the door as well, positioning himself at Corvo’s side.

“She’s in there,” Corvo muttered, his voice almost inaudible from behind his mask. “You open the door. I’ll go in first.”

With a silent nod, Soap stepped forward and stood off to the side, grabbing the handle and raising his gun. He waited as Corvo drew his still-loaded crossbow with one hand, his sword held in the other. With a nod from Corvo, Soap turned the handle and quickly swung the door open, allowing his companion to step inside first before following him in, pistol aimed forward.

A tall, slender form stood at the end of the office with her back to the door, leaning over a desk pushed against the far wall. She turned as the metal door’s hinges gave a painful creak, whipping around as soon as her intruders came into view.

The Madam was an older woman, wrinkles and frown lines set deep into her painted face and her greying, yet still brilliant red hair done up in an impressive updo, held together with a golden pin. She reached up to grasp at the striped fur shawl draped over her shoulders as she gasped in the beginnings of a scream; she quickly fell silent, however, when Corvo’s crossbow clicked as his finger began to tug on the trigger.

“Make a noise and you’ll get a bolt to the throat.”

The Madam stepped backwards, one hand coming to rest on the desk behind her as she watched Corvo step around the second desk in the center of the room, his crossbow still leveled at her. Soap closed the door behind them. A quick glance back revealed a latch on the door; his gun still trained forward, Soap reached back and secured the latch, then turned his attention back onto the Madam as he took a few steps farther into the room.

The Madam glared at Corvo, her mouth twitching open as she began to speak, then thought better of it as she remembered the weapons pointed directly at her. Corvo stopped in front of her, the sword at his side glinting in the light that poured in from the window above the desk.

“The art dealer. Bunting. Where is he.”

At first, the Madam didn’t respond. A click from Soap’s gun, however, quickly persuaded her.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “Money? I’ll give you money. I’ll give you all the money you want if you leave. I won’t call the guards.”

“We’re not after  _money._ Tell us where he is.”

The Madam hesitated. She glanced over Corvo’s shoulder, her gaze meeting Soap’s.

“Don’t look at him. Answer me.”

The Madam’s stare shifted back to Corvo. “...The Silver Room.”

“Good. Now the girl. Where is she.”

Panic briefly flashed across the Madam’s face before she schooled her features into a cool mask. “There’s a lot of girls at the Golden Cat.”

There was a snap as the bolt flew free of Corvo’s crossbow, just barely missing the Madam’s head and burying itself into the wood behind her. The shriek that escaped her quickly died as Corvo closed the space between him, his sword coming to rest against her throat. The Madam’s eyes stretched wide as she leaned back, chin tilted high as she tried to avoid the blade held fast against her neck.

“ _Don’t_  play games,” Corvo hissed in a low voice, the Madam wincing as he applied pressure against her throat. “You know who I’m here for. I won’t ask again.”

“Y-you’ll just have to kill me,” the Madam stuttered. “I won’t tell you.”

“If you don’t tell us, then we’ll just tear this place apart from top to bottom and cut down anyone who gets in our way.” Corvo tilted his head. “Now wouldn’t that be bad for business.”

The Madam’s lip trembled as she stared into Corvo’s mask, swallowing against the blade pressed against her throat. She whimpered when Corvo applied more pressure. Soap pursed his lips but said nothing.

“S-she’s in the dormitories. Top floor, second room down. You’ll need the master key to get in—”

“And where is that?”

“On the desk. Behind you.”

“Good.” Corvo withdrew the blade, and the Madam yelped as he flipped the sword closed, the blade clattering as it retreated into the hilt. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

The Madam remained anchored in her spot as Corvo turned around and stuffed his sword back into his coat, approaching the desk in the center of the room. His hand dug into one of the pouches hanging from his belt and produced a sleep dart, which he loaded into the saddle of his crossbow.

“Madame?”

“Yes?”

Corvo turned, levelling the crossbow at her chest. “You didn’t see us.”

The sleep dart flew into the Madam’s chest, piercing her blue vest where her shawl failed to protect her. She let out a shocked cry and staggered, then promptly crumpled to the ground as the poison did its work, her head barely missing the desk as she fell.

Soap let out a sigh, lowering his pistol as Corvo turned back around and focused his attention on the desk in the center of the room. He replaced his crossbow on his belt and shifted around the papers and folders strewn across the desk until he found the key, grabbing it as soon as it entered his view.

“We’ll split up,” Corvo said, digging into the folds of his coat and pulling out Slackjaw’s map. He held it out towards Soap without looking up, and Soap stepped forward, taking the map from him and setting it down on the desk. “You’ll go after Bunting, and I’ll find Emily.”

“Sounds good.” Soap unfolded the map with one hand and flipped it over to the side detailing the floor plans before smoothing out the paper. “Looks like the Silver Room is on this floor. I’ve got to pass through a lobby of sorts, then this big hall.”

“It’ll be heavily guarded. Take my crossbow and a few sleep darts. I want to avoid getting anyone killed.”

Soap nodded, holstering his gun as Corvo unhooked the crossbow and pouch of darts from his belt and handed them over. “We’ll rendezvous at the VIP exit,” Corvo continued while Soap took the bow and pouch, “and from there we’ll make our way back to Samuel. I’ll have you meet Slackjaw’s man outside with the combination.” Corvo snatched the map back and hastily folded it before putting it back into his coat, rounding the desk and walking straight for the door.

“Alright.” Soap searched for a place to store the pouch of darts, then hooked it onto his belt. He held the crossbow in his right hand, getting a feel for its weight. It was surprisingly light. “Good luck mate.”

Corvo turned around, the blue lenses of his mask glinting in the light. “Good luck to you too.”

Without another word, Corvo undid the latch and pulled the door open, disappearing into the next room as he made a beeline for the stairwell. Soap turned and glanced over the desk, spying the Madam’s unconscious body still lying on the hard wooden floor. With a shrug, Soap left her there, turning on his heel and exiting the office.

 

* * *

 

 _Second room down. Second room down. Second room down._ The Madam’s directions repeated over and over in Corvo’s head as he took the stairs two at a time, his mind focused on who he would find once there.

Seven months. Seven months since Corvo last saw Emily, snatched away in the arms of one of Daud’s men as she screamed for her mother and Corvo. Seven months since he was able to protect her, since he was able to hold her in his arms and shield her from whatever might do her harm.

Seven months ago, he had lost her. Seven months ago, he had failed her. He was never going to let her slip through his fingers again.

As he ascended the stairs to the dormitories, all Corvo could think about was her face, a face he hadn’t seen since she was stolen from him. He remembered the freckles that dotted her deep brown skin, left behind from hours in the sun when she spent all her time in the garden in the summer months. He remembered her eyes, big and almost black, like Corvo’s, always so curious and so bright with the innocence of youth. He remembered her hair, thick like his and straight like Jessamine’s, always pulled back with her favorite red hairband. He remembered her laugh and the way her round cheeks moved when she smiled.

She had her mother’s smile.

The master key was like ice against his palm.

_Second room down. Second room down. Second room down._

It didn’t take long for Corvo to reach the top floor, passing mounds of soiled mattresses on his way through the foyer and down the hall. He passed the first door. Stood before the second.

It took all his self-control not to just kick down the door; he almost didn’t want to bother with the lock. Nevertheless, Corvo decided it best to utilize the key, sliding it into the lock and turning it until a soft click reached his ears. He turned the handle. Opened the door.

The air was knocked from his lungs as a metal rod struck across his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So Chapter 15 turned out a bit shorter than I expected (boo), but that also means I've gotten a head start on Chapter 16! Hopefully it won't take me five years to update this time.
> 
> Once more, thanks to @deadeels (formerly retinaut) on Tumblr for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> I'm also super happy to announce that I and Pavuvu have collaborated to create Soap's Journal - Dunwall Edition! (Yayyyy!) I've been waiting to unveil this for quite some time now and I'm super excited to share it with everyone! Super huge thanks to Pavuvu for suggesting this project and providing the pages/drawing the art!
> 
> Soap's journal can be read on Archive of Our Own [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12929328), or on Tumblr [here](http://callofhonorblog.tumblr.com/post/168242960854/soaps-journal-part-1-a-collection-of-journal)! Part one has already been posted, and more parts will be added as they're finished.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and I hope to update again soon!


	16. Reunion

The second-floor lobby was empty as Soap emerged from the staff-only area of the Golden Cat, thoughts of the Madam left behind as he loaded a sleep dart into the saddle of Corvo’s crossbow. He pressed down on the dart until he heard a click that assured him it was secure, the glass casing gold against his thumb. If all went well from here on out, then this dart would be reserved for Bunting. Soap hoped he would only have to pull this trigger once.

The lobby was already a world apart from the staff-only area, the red-wallpapered walls lined with framed paintings and drawings in gold moulding that glittered in the light thrown from an intricate gold chandelier. To Soap’s left was a windowed door through which natural light filtered into the room; he assumed it led to the brothel’s front-facing balcony. To Soap’s right, the lobby opened into a wide staircase that wound downward, leading somewhere out of sight.

Despite the busy walls, Soap found that the lobby was largely free of furniture or free-standing decoration, aside from a single statue: made of dark grey stone and shaped into something vaguely feminine, the statue stood at the other end of the lobby, beside a set of glass double doors that led into a separate interior room. The _thump_ of his footsteps resonated softly through the lobby as Soap approached the glass doors and the sculpture standing beside them; utilizing the minimal cover provided, Soap stood behind the statue, peering around it and through the doors into the next room.

The doors led into a small foyer, which in turn led into two separate rooms; the first was behind a set of double doors carved from dark wood, the intricate designs shining with a reddish hue under the light of a small chandelier. Light poured in from a pair of small windows in the double doors, providing a small glimpse into another room beyond. The second room was out of sight, accessible through an archway to Soap’s right. Sharing the wall with the set of double doors was a table upon which a platter stacked high with fruit sat, and above it hung a frame which held a—

Soap blinked. _A rune?_

Indeed, a rune hung over the silver platter of fruit, the air around it shimmering with a faint energy. The bone was polished, gleaming white in the light thrown from the chandelier, and the black symbol on the rune’s face—the same as Corvo’s Mark—was significantly faded, as if someone had tried and failed to scrub the image from the rune’s surface.

_Can’t these people get in trouble for keeping that kind of shit around?_

Soap frowned.

_Though I can’t imagine many of this place’s visitors care much about blasphemy._

Crossbow at the ready, Soap grabbed the door handle and turned it, slowly pushing the door open. He had to go through here to get to Bunting anyway—it wouldn’t hurt if he swiped that rune along the way.

_I’m sure Corvo would appreciate it, at least._

Soap carefully stepped into the room, listening hard for anyone who might be nearby or approaching. All seemed clear. He crept up to the table at the end of the room, reaching for the rune that hung in the open frame.

A shadow appeared in the window.

_Shite!_

Instinct took over and Soap darted through the archway through his right, slipping into the next room just as the _creak_ of an opening door heralded the arrival of an intruder. He plastered himself to the wall, back flush against the wallpaper as he nestled himself in a corner where the wall and a tall wooden partition met. His heart jumped in his throat as he heard heavy footsteps as whoever had entered began to walk around the foyer.

The footsteps grew louder. Closer.

 

* * *

 

Corvo staggered back, gasping as his lungs struggled to draw in air. A sharp jolt shot through his chest, followed by a steady ache. In front of him, something moved. The rod was drawn back. It swung for him again.

There was a shriek. High-pitched.

_Emily._

Corvo’s hand shot forward and closed around the end of the rod. He yanked it towards himself. There was weight on the other side. Shoes scraping on wood. His knee shot out and hit something soft. There was a low, masculine cry. Corvo yanked again and the rod came free.

Corvo swung the rod at the man in front of him. He stumbled back, the metal just missing his head. Corvo stepped forward. Swung again. Miss. The man staggered and fell. There was another shriek. Corvo’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

Corvo drew the rod back, preparing to drive it into the face of the man who’d attacked him. He glared down at the man—and then froze as everything suddenly snapped into place.

The man’s chest heaved as he glared back up at Corvo, his blue and green odd-eyes cold and piercing as though he was trying to kill him with looks alone. His short black hair was wild and in desperate need of a comb, and old bruises mottled his taupe face. He was dressed in black, his light undershirt—stained dark brown—exposed where his jacket was left open. His nostrils flared with each labored breath he took, and despite the position he was in his expression suggested only challenge.

This man was familiar. The angle of his cheekbones, his wild hair, his piercing odd-eyes. Corvo had seen this man before. Corvo _knew_ this man.

There were running footsteps, the whistle of metal swinging through the air. Corvo brought the metal rod down to block a blow from a second rod, the sharp clang of metal meeting metal ringing through the room.

“Back away!” A child’s voice. “Leave us alone!”

Corvo’s gaze left the man’s face.

She stood over him, a metal rod like the one in Corvo’s hands gripped in her own, her skin tight over her knuckles from strain. Her hair band was lopsided, loose strands of hair falling in front of her drawn face. Her body, so small compared to Corvo, trembled, and yet she held her guard, her stony glare locked on Corvo’s mask. Her white clothes were dirty, now off-white with dust and grime from rarely being washed, but she was whole and unharmed.

“Who are you?” Emily demanded, her voice firm with a sort of conviction Corvo never dreamed he’d have to hear so soon. “Why are you wearing that mask?”

“Emily.”

A crease appeared between Emily’s brows as she stared up at Corvo. Recognition flitted across her face, her eyes widening as she watched Corvo stand up straight. The clatter of metal against wood broke the silence that had settled over the room as Corvo tossed aside the metal rod. Below him, the odd-eyed man watched, confused and cautious, as Corvo’s hand travelled upwards.

The hood came off first, Corvo’s hair spilling free of its confines and falling in front of his mask. The metal was smooth against his fingers as he then removed his mask, shaking his hair out of his face so Emily could get a good look in the dim light of her prison.

A small sound came from Emily’s throat and the metal rod in her hands slipped free of her grasp, clattering to the floor beside the man on the ground. Her face went slack as she slowly stepped around the man, who took the opportunity to back away from Corvo. Corvo watched as Emily stood before him, wide-eyed, staring up into his face as though the heavens had descended around her and looked her in the eyes.

Then a smile broke across her face.

“Corvo!” she cried out, and Corvo dropped to his knees and spread his arms wide as the child flung herself into his chest. With a sob, she wrapped her hands around her neck and buried her face in his shoulder, Corvo’s arms holding her tight against his chest. He turned his head to plant a kiss in her hair, squeezing his eyes shut as heat threatened to spill forth. “Corvo, it’s you! It’s you!”

Corvo ran his hand along Emily’s back, drawing in a shaky breath as Emily turned her head, trying to kiss his cheek. He pulled his head back, gently placing his hands on Emily’s cheeks and feeling a genuine smile, the first in months, spread across his face as Emily’s misty gaze met his own. She smiled and laughed, her small hands coming to rest on Corvo’s as she rocked from side to side.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Emily said, leaning into Corvo’s hands. “They told me you were d-dead, in prison, that—” She stopped herself and shook her head. She closed her eyes, and Corvo wiped away a tear that trickled down her cheek.

“I’m here now,” Corvo murmured. “Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Emily shook her head, more tears falling down her face as she leaned in for another hug. Corvo obliged her, pulling the child close and holding her head against his shoulder.

It had been seven months since Corvo last held Emily, on the day of his return from his journey around the Isles. She had run up to him like this on that day too, with a wide smile and a kiss planted firmly on his freshly-shaven cheek. If Corvo closed his eyes, he could almost feel the sunlight warming her back, the rough stone on his knees, the gulls that flew over the river. His breath hitched in his throat, his heart heavy with a deep ache, and Corvo held Emily even closer for fear that the trembling child would be taken from his grasp like she had on that day seven months before. Opening his eyes again to the darkness of her prison, Corvo’s gaze found the back of her head, a visible assurance that she was here and real and wasn’t about to fade away into a dream.

Then, his gaze travelled behind her.

The odd-eyed man stared at them, his utter confusion blatant on his face as he watched the scene before him from where he was sitting on the floor. His eyes narrowed when he met Corvo’s gaze, his hand wandering towards the rod Emily had dropped.

Of course. There was the matter of the stranger in her room. His familiar face may had saved him from injury or death, but it hadn’t yet saved him from suspicion.

“Emily?” Corvo was careful to keep his voice even. “Who is this?”

“Hm?” Emily lifted her head, twisting around to look at the man on the ground. “Oh!” She sniffed and wiped her face with the back of her hand, then pulled herself free of Corvo’s embrace and scampered to where the man was sitting. “Corvo, this is Mr. Makarov!” She knelt beside him and turned to smile at Corvo. Her eyes crinkled at the edges—Jessamine’s smile. “He’s a friend.” She whipped back around to face the odd-eyed man. “Mr. Makarov, this is Corvo. He’s my Lord Protector.”

Corvo’s critical stare was met with Makarov’s own. After a few silent moments, Makarov spoke.

“Your Lord Protector?” Makarov sniffed. “Your bodyguard?”

“Yes! He’s here to take me home!” Emily’s smile widened. “We don’t have to run away by ourselves anymore!”

Corvo rose to his feet, leaving his mask on the floor beside the rod he’d dropped earlier as he approached Emily and the man beside her. Makarov peered up at Corvo, his hand not moving from where it rested on the second rod abandoned by Emily.

“A friend?”

There was no doubt in Corvo’s mind; this was the second man from his dreams. Even if he hadn’t remembered his face, he’d have remembered the unusual aura that hung around him, not unlike the one that clung to Soap when he’d first arrived. It wasn’t visible, not entirely; rather, it was felt, a strange prickling that crawled along Corvo’s skin, the sense of something _off_ hanging heavy in the air. It wasn’t a good feeling, but it was one he recognized all the same. Still, Corvo was cautious; as familiar as he was with Soap, this Makarov was still a mystery.

“What is your full name?”

“Vladimir Makarov.”

“Where are you from?”

“Russia.”

“How did you get here?”

Hesitation. “...I don’t remember.”

 _Soap didn’t remember either._ Corvo pursed his lips. “Do you remember what happened before you came here?”

Silence.

“Well?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

Irritation shot through Corvo and he felt his expression shift into a frown. “I don’t believe,” he growled, “you understand the position you’re in.”

“And _I_ don’t see how circumstances beyond your understanding are _any_ of your _concern_ ,” Makarov shot back.

Corvo sighed. His gaze shifted to Emily. Her smile had faltered, and she chewed on her lip as she peered worriedly up at Corvo.

 _This can be dealt with later._ Corvo wasn’t satisfied, but he would have to be. If Makarov had meant any harm, he’d likely have dealt it long ago, and Corvo didn’t have time to sit here and question someone who was uncooperative. An uneasy feeling settled in Corvo’s gut at the thought of bringing a stranger to the Hound Pits, but he wasn’t sure if he had much of a choice.

Besides, if his suspicion was correct, then Soap could provide insight as to what kind of a person Makarov was.

“Emily, we don’t have much time.” Corvo turned and walked back to where he’d left his mask, bending over to pick it up. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“I know a way out! It’s—”

“The VIP exit? That’s where I’m planning on taking us.” Corvo fitted the mask back onto his face. “We’ll meet someone there and leave that way.”

“Is Mr. Makarov coming?”

Corvo paused, facing Emily and the man beside her. Makarov hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor, though he raised his brow expectantly at Corvo, awaiting an answer.

“...You’re well enough to defend yourself.”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t get in our way.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Then come with us.” Corvo pulled his hood over his head and tucked his hair back into it. “There’s someone I think you might know.”

 

* * *

 

Soap’s heart pounded in his chest as he listened hard for any signs of being discovered, his finger curling against the trigger of the crossbow as he heard footsteps approach his hiding spot. He didn’t expect to need his crossbow so soon, though in hindsight, he should’ve; a brothel that catered to some of the city’s most important residents would be crawling with guards, of course, and it was only a matter of time before Soap would have to deal with one of the Cat’s visitors—or residents.

The footsteps stopped briefly, the sudden silence followed the sound of a man coughing, then a heavy sniff. A deep voice grumbled something unintelligible, and Soap heard boots shuffling against the hardwood floors— _away_ from the archway and Soap’s hiding spot. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling.

_Jesus, that was too close._

After a few moments, the shuffling footsteps stopped. He heard heavy breathing, as though whoever was in the foyer was having a hard time pulling air into his lungs. There was a sniffle, and another cough. Soap sent up a quick prayer to whoever was there to listen before turning and carefully leaning towards the archway, peering around the corner with his crossbow raised and ready.

The man who had entered—a guard, dressed in blue with his short red hair combed back—was facing away from Soap, the side of his face visible as he peered down at the platter of fruit sitting on the table. His face was flushed, his nose bright red. Soap quickly saw why as the guard reached up and rubbed at it with his sleeve, another sniff turning into a snort as he did so. Soap grimaced as the guard then reached for the fruit platter, plucking a pear from the pile of food on the table.

_Have these Neanderthals ever heard of washing their hands?_

Briefly, Soap remembered the apple he’d swiped from Griff.

_...In any case, he’s in my way._

The guard bit into the pear as he turned away, not noticing Soap peering through the archway as he strolled across the foyer towards the lobby, possibly looking for a place where he wouldn’t get caught eating on duty. The door gave a low creak as he pushed it open, and Soap waited until a few seconds after he was out of sight before he finally stepped back into the foyer.

Soap couldn’t help but cast a forlorn glance down at the fruit platter once all was clear. Most of the food at the Hound Pits wasn’t exactly restaurant quality—Wallace served as their cook and he made the best of their rations but when it came down to it, having nothing but over-salted fish and fried whale meat dumped into stews and slathered on toast every morning and evening got old quick. Fresh fruit and vegetables—like the pears Soap and Corvo were given that morning—were expensive and hard to come by. At the Golden Cat, meanwhile, there were platters of fruit stacked high where some guard with snotty fingers could swipe one on the down-low all willy-nilly. They had apples and pears and grapes— _grapes_ —just sitting out in the open, begging to be taken. Soap couldn’t remember the last time he had a fucking _grape._

The taste of the apple stolen from Griff still lingered in his mouth.

Soap shook his head in an attempt to physically push the thought of _fresh fucking fruit_ from his mind and looked back up at the rune hanging over the table. It was then that he noticed the rune was completely silent.

Soap recalled his first encounters with runes; he recalled the aura, the low hum that emanated from the bone artifacts, the heartbeat that sounded in his ears whenever he was close to one, which grew louder and faster with each step closer. This time around, all was silent; this rune may has well have been a useless chunk of bone compared to the others Soap had seen. Perhaps something was wrong with it?

Yet some part of Soap still urged him to take it. Now that he knew it was there, ready for the taking, he felt an inexplicable pull towards it. He _wanted_ it.

And at this point he wasn’t sure if he wanted it for Corvo or for himself.

_Decide. Stay here any longer and you’ll get spotted._

It didn’t take long for Soap to decide. He reached for the rune.

As soon as he closed his fingers around it, the air around Soap crackled with an electric shock that rushed down his arm and spread through his entire body, his breath hitching as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His grip on the rune was still tight when he jerked his hand back and inadvertently pulled the rune free in one swift movement, a sharp tingle passing through him all the way down to the tips of his toes. A vibrating hum burst in Soap’s ears, the rune trembling against his gloved palm. Before Soap had a chance to react—to drop it in panic, to put it back in its spot in the frame—the noise suddenly died, silence washing back over the room as the electricity dispersed.

Soap didn’t stop to think about whatever it was he’d just experienced, doing his best to still his shaking hands as he holstered the crossbow and pulled open the pouch of darts hanging from his belt. Having left his LBE at the Hound Pits—an oversight he was starting to regret—the pouch and his own pockets were the only storage he had to fall back on. After reaching inside and gingerly testing the darts’ glass casing with his fingers, Soap decided the darts were strong enough to share space with the bone artifact. Soap dropped the rune in the pouch and pulled it shut before grabbing the crossbow again, double-checking the dart resting in the bow’s saddle.

_Alright. Let’s find this Bunting fellow and get this over with._

Soap turned and glanced through the glass doors into the lobby behind him. The guard that had taken the pear was nowhere to be seen. Satisfied, he approached the wooden doors and peered through one of the windows, leaning so that as little of him was exposed as possible.

The narrow view allowed by the window revealed a dark circular hall that surrounded a lowered parlor, separated from the rest of the hall by white pillars and golden arches that glittered in natural light that spilled in from above. Soap caught a fleeting glimpse of a pair of scantily-clad women as they crossed the parlor, passing a guard who emerged from an entryway which led somewhere unseen. Soap ducked as the shadow of a second guard near the door crossed his vision, waiting a few moments before he peered through the window once more.

 _The Silver Room is somewhere on this floor._ Soap’s teeth grazed his lip, frustrated at how little his field of vision was through this window. _Where?_

Across the parlor was a set of double doors, this one windowless and sporting a sign framed with hanging plants and a single light. Soap narrowed his eyes, straining to read the text on the sign. Engraved in the pale metal of the hanging sign, written in large, looping letters, it read:

**_IVORY ROOM_ **

The doors were impressive, but they weren’t his target.

_Only one thing left to do, then._

Soap quickly scanned the parlor for any signs of a guard or anyone else who might see him and raise the alarm; the guard that had emerged from some unseen room was still present, and Soap watched as he turned and ambled towards the end of the parlor farthest from the foyer. Waiting until he was sure he wouldn’t be seen or heard, Soap grabbed the door handle and turned it, slowly pushing one of the double doors open. Satisfied when it didn’t creak, Soap pushed it further until he had just enough space to slip through, then stepped into the parlor.

He would have to find the Silver Room, and he would have to find it fast. The hall was dark but horribly exposed to the center of the parlor, and it was only a matter of time until more guards, workers, or guests showed up. Thankfully, the sight of the Ivory Room cut short the amount of time Soap would have to put into searching; while he hadn’t memorized the map, which Corvo had taken on his way to retrieve Emily, he clearly remembered there were two guest rooms on this floor. Soap pushed the door behind him into a slightly more closed position and, noting the wide staircase winding upwards to his right, he hung a left, sticking close to the walls and the shadows of the circular hall.

The guard Soap had seen earlier had vanished; where he had gone, Soap couldn’t say. With a finger still anchored to the crossbow’s trigger, Soap stayed low as he crept along the outer edge of the hall, following the curved walls around randomly-placed partitions and potted plants until he spotted a set of tall double doors, painted dark blue like the set on the far side of the room. Soap decided this must be his target, and the sign above the door, with intricate lettering engraved in glittering silver metal, confirmed:

**_SILVER ROOM_ **

There was a set of two lights positioned on either side of the doors; they glowed red, a low electric hum reaching Soap’s ears. He assumed this meant the room was occupied, and—if Slackjaw was right—Soap would soon find his target.

_Let’s just hope he’s not being seen._

Soap glanced behind him, then in front of him; satisfied when he seemed to be alone, he approached the double doors and tried one of the handles. It turned freely in his hand, and Soap pushed the door open, slipping inside the room and standing up straight in one fluid movement.

The Silver Room was huge, a small flight of stairs leading down into the open circular room with black-and-white tiled floors and grey metal walls over which silver curtains were draped, the glossy fabric and silver trim glimmering in the blue light thrown by floodlights positioned in the center of the room. The floodlights surrounded a chair—

Soap’s brows turned upwards, apprehension climbing up his spine.

The chair was situated in the center of the room, its back facing the doorway. Soap could see a man in the gap between the chair’s headrest and backrest, his arms on the armrests as he shifted around in his spot. He was alone, thankfully, and when he heard the door open, the man turned his head, craning his neck as though he was trying to get a good look—which he wouldn’t get, made obvious by the black blindfold wrapped over his eyes. With a grunt, the man settled back into his seat, his back to Soap. A low, electric hum reverberated throughout the room, and looking down, Soap saw wires trail from the bottom of the chair towards some unseen power source.

Soap wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been expecting when he came here, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Finally!” Bunting cried out, exasperation tinging his voice. “You’re late! I’ve been like this for twenty minutes.”

 _He thinks I’m_ —

Soap pursed his lips.

_Who else would he think I was?_

Soap’s military career was colorful. He’d interrogated people before, using both conventional and unconventional means. He’d just never had to deal with something like _this._

Swallowing his apprehension, Soap stepped further into the room, wincing at how loudly his footsteps echoed throughout the room. Bunting sniffed.

“Your footsteps sound a bit heavy. Have you gained a little weight, darling?”

_Don’t call me that._

“Now, just like last time, understand?” Bunting wriggled in his seat, his hands curling into fists and relaxing against the armrests. As Soap walked to the front of the chair, he saw that the art dealer was restrained, cuffs anchoring his wrists and ankles to the chair. In front of the chair was a metal box from which protruded a lever and a glass casing that held glowing blue liquid. The metal box was attached to the chair with the same wires that trailed along the floor and disappeared somewhere behind the curtains draped along the walls.

_That can’t possibly be safe._

“Pull the lever slowly,” Bunting continued, “and only trigger the shock at my command, get it? One shock out of line and you are out of a job!”

_One...shock._

The wires. The metal box. Soap looked up and there were metal coils at the top of the chair, pointed at Bunting’s head.

“And tonight’s safe word will be... _retribution_ , let’s say.”

_Absolutely not._

Soap stepped forward and brought one leg up, bringing his foot down on Bunting’s stomach and pushing him back against the chair. Bunting let out a gasping cry, his back flush against the chair as the heavy weight of Soap’s boot kept him down. The crossbow in Soap’s hand clattered to the floor as he reached for the pistol strapped across his chest, pulling it free and holding it under Bunting’s upturned chin.

“I don’t get paid for this,” Soap hissed. Bunting whimpered as the gun cocked—Soap had no intention of pulling the trigger, but he figured it would work well enough as a tool of persuasion. “The combination. To your safe.”

Bunting sputtered. “M-my—” He gasped when Soap pressed the gun harder against his chin. “My safe! Yes, of course!” Bunting squirmed, sweat beading on his forehead as he spoke. “The combination is 6-9-3. T-take whatever you want, just don’t kill me!”

Soap huffed and after a moment, he removed the pistol from Bunting’s chin—and his boot from Bunting’s stomach. The art dealer’s chest heaved as he gave a massive sigh of relief, going limp against the chair. Soap holstered his pistol and bent over to pick up the crossbow on the floor, pausing as something came to mind.

“It’s Bunting, right?”

“Y-yes.”

“And you’re an art dealer?”

“Yes, what do you _want_?”

“You got any money on you?”

Silence.

“I can get that gun back out.”

“Alright, fine! I... I do.”

“Which pocket?”

Bunting hesitated, then answered, his words carried out on a sigh: “Pouch. On my belt. Left side.”

Satisfied, Soap stood up straight, walking up to Bunting and peering along his belt. Finding the pouch, he reached for it and pulled it free from the art dealer’s belt; it was heavy with coins, but small enough to carry in his pocket.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you.” Soap slipped the pouch into his pocket and checked the crossbow. The sleep dart was still secure. “I don’t get paid for this.”

 

* * *

 

The trip back through the parlor and into the lobby was shorter than the first time around, Soap leaving Bunting behind with a sleep dart lodged in his shoulder. Soap was able to slip through the parlor without being seen, and the lobby was just as empty as Soap had left it. The staff-only staircase was clear; it was a straight shot from the second floor to the VIP exit.

Soap kept the crossbow out in case he came across any guards or workers, checking the second sleep dart he’d loaded in the saddle with each floor he descended. He made it to the first floor, then the basement, and at the very end of the basement was a door that had been left ajar by whoever had come through last.

_Looks like Corvo and Emily have come through here already._

Soap pushed the door open, his crossbow held low at his side as he stepped out into a barren yard. Tall buildings built close together surrounded the yard, looming high over Soap’s head and casting a shadow over the islands of garbage and discarded furniture that dotted the area. At the opposite end of the yard, beside a door leading into another building, stood Corvo, with a little girl in tow—a girl that Soap assumed to be Emily. As Soap strode forward, raising one hand to wave, another form stepped from beside Corvo—

Soap froze.

The man stepped in front of the door at the far side of the yard, putting space between himself and Corvo. He was shorter than Corvo, far shorter, his stocky frame shrouded in black. He turned his head, and Soap’s breath hitched in his throat as their gazes met, a shock dashing up his spine. Even from where Soap stood halfway across the yard, he could see the man’s face, could _recognize_ him. That was a face he had seen in photos printed out and clipped to files, in photos embedded in dossiers that one had to get clearance to see. That was a face he had seen in newspaper clippings, in zoomed-in snapshots grabbed from security camera footage. That was a face Soap had embedded into his mind, a face he swore he wouldn’t forget until he had the chance to put a round into his forehead.

That was a face that Soap now stared into, a pair of green and blue eyes regarding him from the other side of the yard.

Soap’s legs carried him forward.

Soap’s hand dropped to his side as he walked, his greeting forgotten and crossbow a weight in his hand. Something in him wouldn’t let him tear his eyes from Makarov’s face, not even as Corvo uttered his name in confusion, his voice so close and yet so distant at the same time. Makarov tilted his head, brows furrowed, confused, and he took a step back when Soap didn’t slow his approach.

Soap’s finger rested on the trigger. The crossbow seemed to raise on its own.

_“John!”_

There was a high-pitched shriek from somewhere to Soap’s side and a shouted swear from Makarov as the dart narrowly missed him, the glass casing smashing against the metal door behind him as the terrorist ducked his head. Something in Soap had forgotten he’d had a sleep dart loaded in the first place. Unthinking, Soap raised the crossbow over his head—

His body collided with Corvo’s and a firm hand closed around his wrist.

“What are you _doing_?” Corvo demanded, squeezing Soap’s wrist hard enough to ache. Soap hissed through his teeth, trying and failing to yank his arm from Corvo’s unyielding grasp.

“Do you have _any_ idea who that is?” Soap snarled. His gaze was still locked on Makarov, visible over Corvo’s shoulder; the terrorist glared at him, eyes narrowed into slits as he took a careful step back, his back coming to rest against the door behind him. “Where the hell did—How did he—” Beneath his scarf, Soap felt his lip curl back. “ _HOW DID YOU GET HERE?”_

“Keep your voice down!” Corvo snapped, sending Soap stumbling a few steps back with a light shove. He simultaneously released Soap’s wrist and pulled the crossbow from his hand as he did so, though he remained anchored between him and Makarov. “I found him. In Emily’s room.”

“Corvo, what’s going on? Who is he?”

Emily’s question went unanswered. Makarov peered from behind Corvo, his nose wrinkled and lips pressed into a tight line as he met Soap’s glare.

Soap ground his teeth, then reached up and yanked his scarf from his face. His glare was locked in Makarov’s.

“Recognize me?”

It took a moment, but soon the recognition on Makarov’s face made clear his realization. He let out a low, drawn-out hum, the beginnings of a sneer tugging on the edge of his lip.

“Captain MacTavish.”

“So you know each other.” Corvo huffed. “That’s been made obvious enough.”

“How did you get here?” Soap demanded once again. Makarov scoffed.

“I could ask the same of you.”

“And we’ll have plenty of time for questions when we get to the boat. Soap, can I trust you not to throttle him on the way there?”

Soap’s gaze shifted to Corvo’s mask. “You have no idea who this is.”

“I’ve gathered. Now I’m sure you two have plenty of catching up to do, but in case I haven’t made it clear enough, it’s _time to go._ ” Corvo gestured off to the side. “Or have you forgotten that we need to get _her_ to safety?”

Soap looked in the direction Corvo had gestured. Huddled against the wall was Emily, who stared wide-eyed up at Soap.

The first thing he noticed was how remarkably similar she looked to Corvo, the young child his miniature reflection in almost every way; the color of her skin, the same shade of deep reddish-brown, the thick dark hair that framed her round face.

The second thing he noticed was the terror etched across her face.

Then came the realization that Soap had been fully prepared to bludgeon a man to death in front of the poor girl.

A pang of guilt entered his gut for the child’s sake and Soap forced a smile, though by the way Emily’s terrified expression didn’t budge, he assumed it didn’t help much. “Hey, lass.”

Silence. Heat crawled up the back of Soap’s neck.

“I’ll lead the way back to the boat,” Corvo said. “Soap, I trust you have the combination?”

“I do.”

“Good.” Corvo spun on his heel, gesturing for Makarov to step out of the way as he approached the door. He obliged, eyes still locked on Soap’s face as Corvo went to work at unlocking the door.

“You’ll meet Slackjaw’s man at the end of the exit,” Corvo instructed. “Come fetch us when you’re done, and I’ll take us the rest of the way.” The door before him swung open with a loud creak. “Are you ready?”

Soap’s glare lingered on Makarov’s face for a moment before he shifted his attention away. “Ready.”

“Alright. Emily, Makarov, stay with me. Soap, go on ahead.”

Soap made it a point to ignore Makarov as he stepped past Corvo through the doorway. He heard shuffling footsteps behind him, followed by the metal door swinging shut.

The VIP exit hadn’t led into another building; instead, Soap stepped into a tunnel beneath the building itself, the way illuminated by candles positioned throughout. Figuring that Slackjaw’s contact must be waiting at the end—which was out of sight—Soap continued forward without waiting for the others behind him, pulling his scarf back over his face as he picked his way through the tunnel.

He heard her before he saw her, the sound of shifting garbage and shuffling feet on packed earth reaching his ears long before he rounded the first corner. Reflexively, Soap pulled free the pistol that was strapped to his chest, taking a moment to check its ammo before leaning around the corner, peering at the source of the noise. He saw a familiar hunched-over frame, distinctly feminine, the grey-haired woman waddling between piles of trash as she muttered to herself.

_Granny Rags._

Soap drew a deep breath, forcing himself to lower his pistol as he stepped around the corner. He didn’t think he’d see the old woman again, not after his first night out in the city; he’d figured she’d have stayed holed up in her house if she wasn’t chased out by plague or gang activity before month’s end. Considering her presence here, Soap assumed the latter had driven her to this place. Granny hadn’t heard Soap’s approach, and as long as he stayed quiet, she wouldn’t hear him pass through either.

Granny Rags hummed to herself, sifting through a pile of garbage and plucking out objects that seemed to interest her. A chill crawled up Soap’s spine; he’d long forced himself to believe that the creepiness about the old woman had just been his imagination, his nerves going wild, but now she was here and his gut was twisting into a firm knot. He remembered Corvo telling him that this woman must be Marked, and yet...Corvo was Marked, and he didn’t instill the same nauseating unease that Granny Rags did in him. There was something else about this woman, something horribly off that filled Soap with...fear? Was he afraid of her?

 _Relax. She’s blind_ — _as long as you don’t make any noise, she won’t even know you’re there._

Soap barely made it a few steps forward before Granny Rags turned around with a sigh, dropping whatever was in her hands as she shuffled away from the pile of garbage she’d been rummaging through. She paused, frowning as her head turned to and fro before she finally faced a frozen Soap, her thin painted lips twitching into a small smile.

“Oh, it’s you again!”

_Shite._

“Have you come to visit old Granny? Oh, that makes me so happy!” The old woman clasped her hands together as she took a step in Soap’s direction. When he didn’t move, she added, “Well? Are you going to greet me?”

Soap narrowed his eyes. A few moments of silence passed, Granny Rags standing still with an expectant tilt of her head to the right, before he understood that she wanted him to speak. A few more moments passed by as Soap hesitated, then he muttered:

“...Hey, Granny.”

Granny’s smile widened and she brought her hands to her chest. “Hello to you too, dearie.” Granny tilted her head again, to the left this time. “Have you brought friends with you?”

 _Emily!_ Soap’s shoulders stiffened as he thought of the young girl in Corvo’s charge. There was no way Granny Rags could see through the heavy cataracts that clouded her wide eyes, but some part of Soap still didn’t want the old woman to hear Emily pass through.

“Well, be careful, now. There are all sorts of nasty people about. I would hate for you to run into trouble.”

Soap remained silent as Granny Rags shuffled towards an old, discarded bookcase, the shelves stacked high with cans and bottles and other miscellaneous garbage he didn’t take the time to identify. As Granny went to work at sifting through them, seeming to forget about Soap’s presence, he started to walk back down the tunnel, headed for the end that was still out of sight—

“Oh, dearie. You’re looking for someone, aren’t you?” A click of the tongue, a sigh. “I’m afraid he isn’t there anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to @soleilium on Tumblr for beta-reading this chapter!
> 
> Remember to check out [@callofhonorblog](callofhonorblog.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for status updates and more content!


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